It's Okay
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: It's okay, he tells himself and the men inside his head. Everything is okay, he tells his father, who he hates more than anything. He can resolve these problems with the help of his friends when he remembers they're there.
1. Chapter 1

He dreams in black and white of the memories he shouldn't have, but that's okay, because he feels more at home in the memories of what was, apparently, not him, but that's okay. And sometimes they're in color, which is also okay, because then he feels the warmth of a woman under his hands and it's the closest to ever having a child he'll ever get, but that's okay, because those dreams are real enough it's become a drug. He sneaks in the extra sessions when no one is watching, during the night when everyone's asleep and that's okay because they think he's sleeping better since he doesn't scream anymore. And that's okay, because he feels better in a skin that is anything but his own, in a skin where he can fight and climb and _be worth_ _more_ than what he's worth outside of it. And that's okay, because that means his father will be proud of him.

Right?

Right.

And that's okay. So he feeds his addiction, and it's pretty much out of control by now, so he doesn't really care when someone walks in on him in the Animus, by himself, and they're okay with it because he laughs and tells them he's using the training program to try out something new for the novices. But is it him? At this point, he's not sure. Not that it really matters, because everyone is okay with that.

And he bleeds constantly, completely, and he doesn't notice, either, that he's wandering the halls as Altair because he's been spending more time as Altair than before, but that's okay, because Altair was always a better assassin.

And this is where it gets complicated to hide.

Because he argues with them—in his room, in the training facilities, while he trains the novices—and they keep trying to tell him that he's just fine the way he is.

And that's _not _okay.

Because he's _not,_ and they are better than he is by a long shot, and his father has made it perfectly clear he would much prefer Ezio or Altair or Ratohnhaké:ton as a son over him, so he tries to let them take over more. And they chose not to, preferring to talk to him alone, so he finds a secluded, dark corner and squats, scratching his arms in frustration because everything is _not _okay. And no one should believe that, but he's gotten good at hiding it, so he's okay.

He's okay.

He's okay.

He is _okay._

And the deep, infected claw marks on his arms and legs tell him he's okay. Altair and Ezio and Ratohnhaké:ton tell him he's a perfectly good individual. And when they do, he digs his nails into his limbs and re-rips open the long scabs, his once-hairy arms and legs now devoid of hair and covered by long sleeves. But sometimes, when he's bleeding red and one of the others patch him up, he can't help but sit there and laugh, and laugh, and _laugh_, because it's so _Goddamn_ _funny_ that _the fucking voices in his head_ seem to be the only ones who think he's okay the way he is.

But what he doesn't understand even more than why the others seem to think he's okay, is why someone is standing there, yelling, as he paints on the wall. Of course, he wouldn't use the paints for the younger children, because he teaches them, and he doesn't want to use their things, so he settles on a nice shade of red he has pooling in his hand and dripping down his arm as he paints a picture of the wolf and the eagles that live in his room on the wall in the main room in the early morning hours. And there's more yelling and panic, he notices, when that one woman with the blonde hair—the one that one of him stabbed in the _stomach_ and was rushed to the hospital before she could die—sees him dripping blood all down his arms as the other man with the glasses tries to grab him.

But he rolls out of the grasp, trained over three—or was it four?—lifetimes to avoid it, and keeps painting, humming merrily to himself. Ezio is chattering merrily, laughing gaily as he gives the eagles life, but its fucking _hard_ when he has to dodge Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses every few seconds. Eventually, Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart calls him back, and he hears Ratohnhaké:ton singing something—or is it him?—as he paints on the eyes, and Altair tells him that he's done the shading wrong—or did he catch that?—and he goes to correct it.

Only to feel something prick his neck. He growls and dumps his paint on the ground as he pulls out something that looks like a needle from his neck, and he starts to panic because it's poison and that's _not _okay. And Ratohnhaké:ton is telling him to find someone to suck the poison out, and Ezio is saying he needs the antidote, and Altair is saying he needs to sweat out the poison, and the paint is dribbling down the back of his neck as the cool metal of the blade on his wrist comes out and cuts open that area as he hopes to drain the poison from his body. Thank the heavens Ratohnhaké:ton knew what to do. He certainly didn't. There's more frantic chattering and panic as he presses his robes against his neck to try to draw the poison out, and eventually, his legs wobble, his eyes roll back, and the floor has never had a closer friend. And that's okay.

When he wakes up, his arms and legs _hurt, _but he can smell the too-strong scent of bleach and the overwhelming stench of blood and disease, and it registers he's in a hospital. He licks his lips and crinkles his nose as he opens his eyes. Ezio is markedly quiet, and there're no sounds in his head at all. His skin feels as if it's been stuffed with lead and the inside scrubbed with acid while the outside was left to bake under the sun, and he's suffocating. He's heaving for breath as he remembers that breathing is "in," "out," "in," "out." He blinks as he looks around, and he sees he has a roommate. He makes a strangled rasp, getting the man's attention, and he sees an old man, with a cataract-eye and a big white beard.

He snarls, and the old man tenses, his blue eyes flashing brown as he struggles to get loose, but there's binds on his arms and legs, and he _knew_ he should have never turned his back on Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses and Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart. They drugged him and tied him down for torture. As if he'd give away information easily.

The old man pressed a button on the bed, and a few minutes later—he's struggling _harder_, because damn it all, he can't _move_—a bedraggled-looking nurse comes walking in, impatiently asking what's wrong, and he growls, because he needs to kill the old man before he tries to take over again, and he howls when the nurse's eyes grow wide. He can't use his voice as he arches his back and snarls, kicking and thrashing against the binds. His muscles are screaming in protest, and the nurse is by his side, calling for something as she messes with the IVs, and he snaps at her hand when she reaches for his nose while talking about tubing. He snarls, snapping again when she tries a second time, and she backs off. He guesses these bonds can be broken with enough strength, and as he pulls and hisses and snarls and growls, he can feel the material getting looser and looser.

Where are the voices?

Why aren't they talking to him?

And why hasn't he had any dreams?

He blames the nurse and the stench of bleach. They must have frightened off Ezio and the others. He howls again as Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses and Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart come running in with Miss Headphones-and-One-Red-Glove. He snarls as they walk over—they should see that the old man is dangerous. He thrashes and spits at them as they walk over, and he strains against the bonds even harder when one touches him as he screams, because he _cannot_ be kept in Templar hands.

And now Ezio is murmuring in the back of his head, telling him it would be dangerous for him to stay there. They're trying to _kill_ the others in his head—why, if they are what's wanted?

That's _not_ okay. And neither is he. And neither is Ezio, and Altair and Ratohnhaké:ton were always quiet so they were the first ones to disappear, but he _refuses_ to let them get rid of them. They were the ones that were wanted, and now they were killing them. His scream gets even more higher-pitched as one of the bonds pops loose, and he now has a free hand, scrabbling at the other bonds before he sees one of the three getting ready to grab him.

He punches him, hard, and grabs him throat to crush their windpipes and _kill_ him, but he feels fingers prying his hands off before the man is dead, and the bonds on his other hand snapping, and he's grabbing for them to kill them. All of them. And then the bed is melting away and he sees Leonardo's study as he's lying in the bed. The blonde man is smiling at the end of the bed, one hand on his foot.

"You're going to injure yourself further, Ezio. Please, rest and recover. The old man will not harm you."

He blinks, several times, rapidly, and exhales loudly before calming down. If Leonardo says things will be fine, things will be fine. He knows this. This man is his protector. The inventor genius walks up beside his head and cards a hand through his long hair. It feels nice, and his eyes flutter closed.

"You've been having bad nightmares, so I have to hold you back. I cannot have you injuring yourself further."

He nods as best he can with the bind on his head as he relaxes to the feel of fingers in his hair and slowly falls back asleep. And when he wakes up again, he's back in the hospital, and he can't feel Ezio at all, and he can't really feel himself, either. His skin still feels as if it's been scrubbed with acid on the inside, and his outside baked, and his insides, well, he can't feel his insides. His thoughts are muddled, and he realizes he's actually okay with where he is, despite the pain. He sees the old man in the other bed, who notices his stare, and he keeps staring as he pushes the button again, and the nurse comes back in. His eyes flick over to the woman, who approaches him warily. He doesn't move, too clouded over and hazy.

"Mr. Miles?"

He blinks and wonders who she's talking about.

"Mr. Miles? Can you understand me?"

He blinks, slowly, studying her. Leonardo would not have left him alone without a nurse. He gives her a small smile and looks at her tiredly. He hurts.

"Are you feeling well enough for company?"

He blinks, then looks at the ceiling.

"Your old teammates wish to see you."

He looks at her from the side of his gaze, flicking his Eagle Vision on and seeing nothing but blue all around him as the nurse walks out and three more people walk in. He turns off the gaze, and _oh_…

It's Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses, Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart, and Miss Headphones-and-One-Red-Glove.

And Mr. Yelling-and-Glasses has a lovely bruise around his neck.

They approach him cautiously, and he watches them.

"The drugs are working. He should be properly sedated enough to approach."

"Are you sure? I'd rather not come so close to death again."

He wants to know who these guys are. They inch closer, and he watches them, warily, because just because they're blue doesn't mean they're trustworthy. He doesn't flinch when they place hands on his legs.

"Desmond?"

Now someone is calling for a Desmond. Whatever or whoever a Desmond is. He wonders if it's the same person as Mr. Miles.

"Desmond," says Miss I-am-Blonde-and-Smart, "do you know who we are?"

He blinks, looking at them blankly.

"I'm Lucy."

"And I'm Shaun."

"And I'm Rebecca."

"And you're Desmond," Lucy says, and he blinks.

He stays like this for several days, listening to them chatter on and on, and he can't help but wonder where he is, and why he's here. He realizes he no longer has his left ring finger, which is okay by him. He doesn't pay attention to them, too busy trying to save Ezio, and Ratohnhaké:ton, and Altair, and he doesn't want them to die off, because they made him _worth something_. He needs them, wholly and completely. He has things to do, and three days into it, he realizes that he has one duty all four of them love: to train the novices.

And those kids have been the light of his life. His eyes widen in horror at the thought that _someone else_ has been teaching his kids. Those kids are his. He struggles to sit up and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. They had always been his purpose. They had always been his life. He had taken over all of the combat duties, as well as helping with the youngest of the new assassins, and he might not have been the smartest of the assassins, and he might not have been the strongest of the assassins, and he might not have been good at much, but he'd be damned if—

"Master Miles!"

He jerks as he feels a small body collide with his legs, and the pain _radiates_ throughout him, but he's scooping up the small child regardless and laughing at the shriek of happiness before there's kids _everywhere_, of all ages, and he feels like he's at home. He can feel a muddy swirl of all three of the voices in his head, because all of them loved their kids more than their lives, as all parents should—as his father didn't—and he's kissing the head of one while another jumps on his back. He staggers under the weight, and his legs and arms hurt _so damn much_, but if there's one thing all four of them agree on, it's that children are definitely a treasure worth protecting.

And that's okay.

"Are you going to be teaching us again?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

"We miss the games you play with us!"

"Yeah, the new instructor doesn't play games with us!"

"We miss you!"

"We made you a card so you'd come back quicker!"

"We want to play Blob again!"

He's grinning ear-to-ear, because kids across the ages don't change, and they don't mind all four of him, all four of his lives. He can bleed all he likes, and it doesn't matter, because each of them have bonded with the kids to work together to make him a better teacher. They whisper in his ear how to deal with each kid, and they made a good team, because there were enough personalities to cover all the bases.

The teenagers are hanging out in the back, and the adults he practices with behind them, but he's still standing, and he's feeling well enough that he thinks he can take back up his job. He sees Lucy, Shaun, and Rebecca standing farthest back, smiling warmly at him. At least he could remember their names. Eventually, after the kids were gone and the adults were done gossiping, he sits on the bed, every bone in his body weary. The three who have been spending the days with him sit beside his bed, and he crawls into the bed. He hasn't used his voice in who knows how long, but as he rolls onto his back and feels the pleasant burn in his limbs as they recover from the kids.

_His_ kids.

_Altair's _kids.

_Ezio's_ kids.

_Ratohnhaké:ton's_ kids.

"Desmond…"

He looks, his eyes drooping because he is absolutely exhausted. It's Lucy talking.

"How have you been feeling, lately? Any problem with the voices or the bleeding?"

He blinks.

"This new medication should take care of it."

Desmond blinks again and begins to bristle. He flicks on his Eagle Vision, and now there's red everywhere because they're not on his side anymore. They're trying to kill the very thing he's addicted to—the thing that makes him _better._

"Why?" he rasps out, struggling to sit up, alarmed.

The other three look surprised, and he's climbing out of the bed, leaning on the walls as he tries to walk out.

"D-Desmond!"

He snarls harshly and keeps pushing forward. The others are afraid to touch him.

"Desmond, please listen!"

He shakes his head. No more medications. He wants another session in the Animus. _He's better there._

"We spoke to Altair and the others, Desmond," he hears Shaun say.

He pauses in the doorway, and slowly, hesitantly, looks over his shoulder. All three of them are standing, and he regards them carefully. Lucy's looking at him with a pitiful expression, and Shaun and Rebecca are staring at the bed. He walks over painfully and sits down slowly, cautious.

"They told us all about what was going on inside of you, Desmond," Lucy adds.

He frowns, scooting to the edge. What on earth are they talking about?

"They all said pretty much the same thing, Des," Rebecca murmurs.

"That you need to have some confidence in yourself," Lucy says, the only one who will meet his gaze. "And that if they had to go away, they would and be at rest once more in order to let you grow on your own."

"And I know that we haven't, exactly, been easy on you in the past," Shaun murmured, not meeting his gaze.

"You mean, you," Rebecca hissed. "You were a dick to him."

Shaun doesn't look at him.

"And we also heard about your issues with William."

He gave Lucy a quizzical look.

"William?" Lucy repeated. "Your father?"

Recognition dawns on him. He briefly wonders if he'll even know who his dad is. He doesn't know if his father is part of the reason, but all he knows is there's a chemically-produced wall between him and his ancestors that will never be torn down if he keeps have medication pumped into him.

"So," Lucy continues, reaching out and placing a hand on his leg, despite the fact he _clearly_ doesn't want her to touch him, "we've promised to help look after you, and they've agreed to disappear for a while. That doesn't mean that you won't still have problems, but the medication should take care of most of it."

He frowns: shouldn't he have a say in this?

"Desmond?"

His frown becomes bigger.

"Desmond, can you talk?"

He scowls. Of course he can talk, but he hasn't talked in a while, has he? As he thinks about it, he realizes that he hasn't, aside from talking to his students. He talks to the others in his head, quietly, urging them out or asking for help. And he supposes if he does talk, it'll come out in a slur of English, Italian, Arabic, and Kanienkehaka, which is the most fascinating of the languages he's learned, the language of the Mohawk Indians. When he does open his mouth, he's not entirely surprised to find that his words _are_ a mess of all the languages, some of the words being pronounced with two or three languages all botched up together because he just can't keep everything straight. It sounds completely normal to him, and that's okay, but he knows that others can't translate like he can. And he's certain if he were to be asked to speak in anything but English, he could do so perfectly, with an accent and everything, because they're a part of him, but he's not perfect, and he's having trouble with English because it's something foreign that he's never been able to perfect, never, and that's been made perfectly clear to him many times. The confused faces of the three sitting there are almost worth the imperfection.

"Bloody hell, just what have we let him do to himself?"

He looks at Shaun, studying him carefully. They've murdered three of the four of him, the three better of the four, and they wonder what's wrong. Of course he can't function properly: he's been trying to get rid of himself for the longest time. He's been told that he's _wrong_ for most of his younger life, the entire time he's been in the order, and now he's just suddenly supposed to be able to function on his own and believe that he's perfect.

That's _not_ okay because he's been trying to destroy himself ever since he saved the world.

He pushes off the bed and grabs his clothes from under the bed. How fancy: they purchased him a real hospital and not the infirmary. He changes as quick as he can, ignoring the others' protests, and manages to make it back to headquarters before collapsing from exhaustion in the front foyer.


	2. Chapter 2

Still, the next day finds him dressed and entering the training facilities at his appointed hour to teach the four- through six-year-olds. There's an older man he recognizes, but doesn't remember his name, and he frowns as he cracks his neck and knuckles. No one is taking the one job he can actually do from him. The kids scream with excitement when they see him coming, and the older man looks at him, surprised. He must not look well, bags under his eyes and scarred arms and legs that should be very hairy poking out of a fitted tee and shorts.

"You should be in bed!"

He growls and shakes his head. "Mine."

The older man looks thoroughly impressed as his eyes trail down the hideous scars on his arms and legs, and he growls. The man bows out of respect and backs off to watch, just in case. He grins like a goof and looks at the kids for just a moment before he's smothered with children and laughing at the dog pile on top of him. With a roar, he wrestles them all off, and takes a moment to play with them before lining them up and beginning lessons. Granted, he entered lessons at the end of the day—two to four pm so they'd wear out—but he was still here, and he was going to do it, and he was going to show them that they were _wrong_ to keep him down for so long. He trained the kids, and he trained them well—well enough he had actually gotten a compliment once on how advanced they were by the time they were starting missions.

He's alarmed to find how far behind the kids have fallen compared to the previous two years he's been working with them. The newest kids don't know what they should know, and the ones about to graduate to the seven- through twelve-year-old group aren't ready for it. He manages to teach them enough, though, that he knows he can bring them back up to speed, because he does well at making sure they master what they need to do at an accelerated pace, and those who can't he spends extra time with outside of class. The seven- through twelve-year olds learn from seven to ten, and the twelve- to seventeen-year-olds from ten-thirty to one-thirty, and after four he trains the eighteen-year-olds and up. And after that, he's free to do whatever, because the training sessions are long, but that's okay because the kids learn. All the other times they have classes, and sometimes, he goes in with the four- through six-year-olds to color or paint with during those half-hour breaks if he doesn't want to do paperwork. He loves his job.

_They_ loved their job.

And they've only been doing it for two years, but already he's pulled the assassins heads and tails above the other master that taught them how to fight. It probably helps he's lived three lives of highly-skilled, better assassins to learn all he needs to know. And when three forty-five rolls around, he perches on one of the training bags and calls one of his younger students, and then they're off playing the Blob, and he's moderating the game. He laughs as they scatter like dust in the wind, and there's lively screaming and tagging and cornering the others to tag them to make the Blob bigger. The older gentleman seems surprised at his teaching methods: fun and easy, liable to get distracted at the beginning and the end, and he realizes it was the master from before him. After two or three rounds, the kids have surrounded his punching-bag perch, and he quirks an eyebrow as they shout for him to come down so they can capture him in the blob as well.

He leaps over their heads, and they're off and screaming as they chase him around for a bit before he "accidentally" trips and then all the kids are on top of him, all of them saying, "Tag!" The last few minutes are nothing more than a pile of wrestling kids, and he's laughing as their parents waiting on the sidelines gather their children for classes again. He says goodbye to each of them before feeling the adrenaline and serotonin slowly level out. He doesn't know how long it's been since he's trained them, but he feels so much better already. Ezio is humming quietly in the back of his mind, and he feels better now that the medication is going to wear off—now that he'll be better again.

"_That's_ how you teach them?"

He blinks, looking at the older man and frowning.

"It's a wonder that anything gets done," he hears Shaun say, and he looks to see the man walking over as Lucy smacks him, hard, on the back of his head.

"Although the middle of the training session was pretty cool to watch," Rebecca says. "You had them all lined up and working hard."

He smirks.

"You spoke just fine, then, as well," Lucy murmurs.

"So then, tell me, Desmond," Shaun begins, "just how is it that you manage to be in your office every day after four if you're supposed to be training the older kids. I see you in here _maybe_ two weeks of the whole year training with them at the beginning of the year."

He frowns and his eyes dart over to a chart he has on the wall of the training facility. He lets the older kids train themselves, predominantly; since they're getting ready to graduate they know what they need to do. He has a set of tests they have to pass starting around December or January, and they have six months. While their schooling stops for a two-month break, their training never stops, and before they can become indoctrinated as fully-fledged assassins, they have to pass his tests which are simple in nature. He spends two weeks with them, assessing them just after the graduate from the seventeen-year-old group, then tells them that they have to pass his tests, and the rest is up to them. This weeds out the hard-working from the lazy, and the lazy are usually sent off to universities or colleges to become something different for the order. Which is fine, because the order needs lots of different people to keep running, and as long as they stay in shape, it doesn't really matter.

The first test is simply rope climbing in several parts. They have to make it up and down a rope with no help, chalk, or things on their hands. Then they have to carry one-hundred and sixty pounds in the shape of a human on their backs, hang between two ropes for a minute, and then climb back down. This test evolved once he saw the reports over the years of more than just a few assassins being killed because they couldn't carry an injured buddy and hang on the side of a building as guards checked the parameters.

The second test is they have to disarm him in the combat area set out and pin him. The first time, it happens in a ring. The second time, it happens in a narrow rectangle—the third time, in a narrow rectangle with boxes and obstacles. Simple enough, and good to assess their fighting abilities.

The third one is his favorite. He finds a subsitute, and at six, he wakes up, vanishes into the city, and the assassins have a day to find him—however many of them choose to take it that day, and he's only have a handful find him on their own. They can use any means necessary to find him, whatever they need to, and he's allowed to change his looks if he deems it necessary. Then after that, they have to hide from him for six hours. It's his absolute favorite test, and it tests the biggest skills the assassins need.

Usually by then, they've already been on several missions that he's okayed, and any other skills they might have needed they've picked up. And already, he's seen a decline in deaths in the order and a much higher success rate among the missions. He's done better than any other master in the order when it comes to training. He helps there's four of him to get it done. There _were_ four of him. And he knows at least once he'll take the kids to Central Park, and another time out to dinner, because he loves his job so much. He spoils his kids rotten, and that's okay with him, because he's _damn good_ at his job.

"Desmond?"

He jerks and finds Lucy staring at him, all of them, concerned, and he offers a hesitant but pure smile.

"Do you just not want to talk to us?"

"I wouldn't want to talk to us, either," Rebecca murmured. "I mean, let's face it: we really blew it underground with him."

"We didn't do too bad," Lucy said, and he looked down just in time to catch one of the five-year-olds as she hurtled toward him.

"Hi, Master Miles, sir! We made you a get well card with glitter and ribbons and paints! We missed you!"

He takes the offered card from the little girl and kisses her head. "Thank you."

He opens it as best he can with a squirming little girl in his arms, and smiles at the amount of glitter that falls out of the card. There's a picture of him and the kids on the inside, and the sun has a smiley face and the ribbons on the edge are glued into clumsily tied bows. This is a masterpiece. "Get well soon!" is written at the top in blue paint, and he finds himself smiling, and Ezio is chuckling quietly in the back of his mind—the medications can't kill what he won't let die.

"It's beautiful. I'll hang it up, Amanda."

The girl looks so happy at the statement, even though his voice is rough. He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.

"You got scratchies like my papa!"

He laughs and realizes he hasn't shaved in a while. Nevertheless, he carries her over to her mother, and the girl goes to her mom willingly, thankfully.

"Will you come and play with us like use always do?"

"Maybe. Maybe tomorrow."

She sighs dramatically, but he chuckles and walks out of the gym and into the hallway that connects to the main foyer, and that connects to the halls with the rooms. It's incredible how much of this is underground. As he walks through the main foyer, with the heads' offices and his, and several comfy couches and a TV and a pool table, he stops and stares at the wall he painted on. He wiggles his fingers, feeling his finger missing, and he flicks on the Eagle Vision.

His picture is still there, but it's incomplete. He feels like he needs to finish it, and Ezio is humming he probably should. The man is still quiet, still hindered by whatever drug they pumped him with, and once it wears off, he knows all three will be back. The wolf still needs his back legs, and the eagles need shading. The snarl on the wolf and the attacking eagles make the three look like a powerful trio, and he can't help but smile. He wants to finish his painting—if he can remember where he got the paint from.

He jumps when he feels a hand in his, and it's Lucy's. He looks to see her looking upset, and he smiles warmly. Of course she would look worried: she doesn't understand the beauty of such a work of art, something that he's given his all for.

"Desmond, we're not going to let you go crazy again. I promise."

And he laughs at that, because he knows it's all ready too late, and he's fucking _batshit_, and he'll never be normal, and that's okay with him, because as his mind begins to churn at those words, he knows he'll finish his painting one night—_even if it kills him—_and he'll fall in love with his ancestors' wives all over again because he'll never find one of his own, and he'll continue to sleep with the wolf and the two eagles, and he'll keep trying to destroy himself, because that's all he's good for, really, and someone else would be much more suited to fulfill his shoes.

And he's giggling like mad, and the bright blue blobs melt into horrified faces as he laughs and giggles. He can't help it because he is so utterly fucked up that there _is_ no saving him now, not as he turns away and walks down the corridor to his room, not as the walls melt around him as he looks for a place to set the picture. He rubs his chin and feels the longer white hairs on his chin as all of a sudden his bones become heavy, and he sags under the effects of age. He rubs a hand against his eyes, just wanting to rest as he continues to look around the room, and he decides the place for the card is on his desk, piled high with various pictures and other things. His hands tremble slightly as he sets it down gently, and he notices the wrinkly skin on his hands. He really ought to thank his kids for thinking of him so often. He is such an old man, and he sits down at his desk stiffly as he looks at all the pictures he has.

When he feels familiar hands on his shoulders, he leans back to smile at Sofia, only to find that it's _not_ Sofia, and he frowns, rising to meet the woman with short black hair. He asks who she is, and the woman gives him a confused look. He wants to know why Rosa is out here at his villa and why she has not aged, but the image melts quickly, and he's back in his room in the modern day. There's glitter on his fingers, and he watches it sparkle in the light he doesn't remember turning on.

"Desmond?" he hears one of them say.

"Sod it all," he hears, and he has all of two seconds to process what's going on before he realizes there're lips on his, and the distinct masculine scent fills his nose.

But they're too harsh to be Leonardo's lips, as he felt so many times before after Ezio's curiosity got the better of him, and they're still much too gentle to be Malik's, and he knows these kisses just as well, so he's trying to figure out just who he's kissing, and the hard press of medal and glass against his cheekbone as a tongue darts out to ask for permission to enter—something Malik never did—and he's left in a swirling of myriad of thoughts as he figures out everything.

He's kissing Shaun Hastings, historian and field technician.

He's Desmond Miles, of the twenty-first century.

And he's currently realizing there is no room for Altair or Ezio with Shaun, and Ratohnhaké:ton didn't have a man that he liked like this, not in the middle of the Revolutionary War so he can't be him, and when Shaun pulls back. He blinks, _finally_ seeing the twenty-first century through the eyes of Desmond Miles after over two years. Ezio murmurs something in the back of his head that he ignores as he looks around at his room that seems so familiar and yet so _new _all at the same time. Shaun is standing there, his fists in his shirt as he pants from the ridiculous kiss, and the girls behind him look horrified.

"Shaun?"

"That's me, you ignorant prat."

He grins. "Yeah. That's you. And I'm me."

"Are you sure?" the man growls. "Or do you need another kiss?"

Desmond chuckles, and he knows that as soon as he lets his guard down, the bleeding effect will be back, but he's okay with that for now, because the bleeding effect protects him from reality, and he's come to rely on them for lots of things, not, but that's okay. Shaun drops his hands and steps back just slightly.

"Yeah. Yeah."

"'Yeah,' what, you irritating sod?"

"Yeah," he breathes, sitting on his bed and covering his face with his hands. "Yeah. I'm me. For now."

He sprawls on the bed on his stomach, and Shaun is looming over him, beside him, and he stares up at the man, whose pupils are big and black.

"Do you want to give me another kiss?"

"And risk my life at the hands of a madman? I'll leave that to Lucy."

He looks at his crush, who seems to be contemplating something, and then she shakes her head and smiles as she walks over and straddles Desmond, making him jump slightly as she places her hands on his back and laughs quietly.

"I used to do this with Sixteen."

"What, fuck him?" Desmond says with a cheeky grin.

"No," she murmurs, and he hums happily as her hands begin to give him a wonderful massage. "It helped him calm down."

And soon enough, he's melting under skilled fingers as Lucy gives him a wonderful back massage, and he can hear the sound of Rebecca pulling over his desk chair while Shaun sits at his head. Eventually, his breathing evens out, and thankfully, _thankfully_, Lucy doesn't stop. He's utterly exhausted, even though he's only been active for two hours today, but he'll get there. He won't be stopped, and Desmond promises himself that he'll work himself into a grave before he lets himself go that much. He'll make the bleeding effect work to his advantage. And as he slowly drifts off, his mind calm and his thoughts relatively clear, he can feel the looming dream of Ezio and Sofia. It will be a good night for him.

And he dreams with startling clarity. He shouldn't be able to see this far into his ancestors' lives, but now that he no longer has to worry about the constraints of the Animus to relive the memories, it's okay. He dreams of his final moments with Sofia and the kids, and he relives the final kisses and the warm touches. He relives their last meal together, on the road, and he relives that final, breath-taking view of his wife as he sits on the bench. With a quiet sigh, he can feel the warmth of the sun in his bones, and he's ignoring the man at his side who needs to learn respect for women. His wife looks beautiful as she roots around at the market stalls, and his mind is churning sluggishly, terribly so, and he closes his eyes for just a minute. That's all he needs before he wakes to the familiar smell of animal skins and smoke. He could feel that impending self-doubt knot in his belly at the thought of fighting against his own people.

He's been exiled, outcasted for deserting his own people—the people that raised him to be all that he is. He should be fighting for the Crown, he should be fighting _against_ the British, because they're promising to keep the intruders out. Yet, somehow, deep in his bones, he can't find himself able to band with his tribe against the colonists. He hopes every night they don't find him and kill him in his sleep. They _hate_ him. He wakes up with a grunt, feeling several bodies against him. One on either side. Did he collapse in a fight? He struggles to open his eyes, and he finds a head of blonde hair under his nose.

He shoots up, alarmed that he might have gotten tangled with one of the colonists—hopefully not a married one to bring even more shame to his name. The blonde woman stirs, and so does the black-haired one on his other side, and he prays that he _didn't_ have an orgy with them because that would be _awful_. He climbs out of bed and opens the door to the long cabin to see a ten-year-old standing there.

"Master Miles! Are you coming?"

He smiles, and all of a sudden, there's three of him walking down the hallway, and he can _feel_ the set of three legs moving as one as he walks alongside the ten-year-old who tells him all about breakfast. There's him, and there's Ezio, and there's Ratohnhaké:ton. All he has left it to bring back Altair, who should be back sooner or later. He'll come back. And as he walks down the halls, he can almost see the three bodies moving slightly out of line with each other, Ratohnhaké:ton's lower crouch, Ezio's mid-aged powerful stride, and his…

His…

His?

Probably nothing.

But that's okay.

And as he steps into the facilities, all three of them seem to meld together into one being, into one person, and like throwing thin veils of cotton over his eyes, he now sees things in a way that's almost familiar to him, except Altair isn't here. He needs that final layer, that final push of security to help him along, and he _can't_ live on his own, because he is _nothing_. The kids are ecstatic to see him again, and he laughs at the warm welcome—but it's not one laugh, it's two and a half, because he's going to fade eventually. The bleeding effect will make sure of it. And there's nothing he can do to reconcile himself, because he _doesn't_ want to live, and he did, briefly, try to throw that other kid in the Animus into his body rather than him. He's tired of having four men in his head, and it's easier to let himself die so he doesn't have to deal with the headaches that this life comes with. It would take some serious work to fix him, and it would have to start with shutting up the others, which will never happen, because he is _hell-bent_ on destroying himself to make himself better, and that's okay.

That's okay.

That. Is. _Okay_.

The class comes and goes in a flash of happiness and mirth, and he has thirty minutes before his next lesson-time. He can't wait. As the kids file off, he takes a quick nap sitting against the wall, and when he wakes, there's those three standing there again, watching and looking absolutely upset. He smiles at them and beckons them forward. If they want to train, he can work with them. The blonde woman walks up to him and cups his cheek, caressing it gently before leaning in and kissing him. He smiles, and it's nicer than any of Lucrezia's kisses, any kiss that Ratohnhaké:ton's experienced, and he wraps his arms around her waist as she continues to kiss him. Her hair looks beautiful down, and he feels as if things are clearing up slightly. By the time she pulls back, he's Desmond again.

But it just doesn't feel right.

Because he is the reject of the assassins, the one who ran away.

He's the one that's here _only_ because of the kids.

Nevertheless, he chuckles, and it sounds so _wrong_. It does. He shouldn't be here. He should be hiding behind the veil of what's not him.

"Hey, guys."

"So we have to kiss you every time to make your bleed throughs better? Pathetic," Shaun murmurs. "Absolutely pathetic."

Desmond frowns, and he doesn't really want to be here. "You don't have to. I'm happy as—"

"Don't say it, Desmond," Lucy reprimands. "And Shaun, will you just _shut up_? We're supposed to be healing him!"

Desmond chuckles as the kids start filing in. "Look, guys, don't worry. I'm too far gone, anyway. It's okay."

He gently pushes them to the side as he walks over to greet the teens, leaving them stunned. This next class is even harder, because while they listen better, he has to teach them more complex moves. Still, he loves every minute of it, even if he can't hear Ezio or Ratohnhaké:ton. His heart and soul just soar with the kids, and he feels so ethereally happy by the time they're done. He just loves it. With a smile, he sees them off, and he can't help but wonder just were his life is going to go. And when they're done, he has thirty more minutes, and Lucy, Rebecca, and Shaun are all beside him again.

"Desmond, we need to talk."

He looks at Lucy. "What's up?"

She sighs, looking frustrated, and he quirks an eyebrow.

"Look, I have thirty minutes before my final class, and if one of my other students shows up to ask for help, they come before you. You might want to start talking."

He watches them closely. Yeah, sure, they're good companions, but he has other things he should be doing, like filing the paperwork on what he did and the kids.

"Desmond, you need to heal."

He snorts. "I'm okay, guys. Stop—"

"You are not okay, dude!" Rebecca all but growls. "You cut off your own finger to paint! You've got, like, a million different people living in that head of yours, and we don't want them—"

"That's bullshit, Rebecca," he growls, cracking his knuckles out of instinct—a nervous tick of Altair's. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have kept me shoved in that… _thing_ for so long. Just like you didn't want Clay, _Subject Sixteen_, but the men in his memories."

All three flinch at that mention, and he scoffs.

"You can't even talk about him. That's pathetic. Come talk to me when you grow a pair."

He walks out without waiting, leaving them in surprised silence. He paces out of the facilities and toward his office to make sure things are getting done, and his head feels clear, and his gait is powerful, and he feels as if he belongs, for once, behind the guise of power that isn't real. He walks into the office to find the old man from yesterday, who gives him a rundown of where he is and what he's been doing, and Desmond grins and dismisses him. The man seems all the happier now that he's done with his job, and he sits at the desk briefly before picking up where he left off. He doesn't pay attention, hardly noticing when his father and the other heads talk as they pass to go to lunch.

"I swear: I've never seen the assassins more excited."

"There is a new sort of energy we've been lacking, isn't there?"

He pauses in the middle of preparing what novices can do what missions. He can see his father standing there as they wait for the final head, and he frowns. Suddenly, as he watches them in their robes, he becomes conscious of the fact that he's still in his tee and shorts, the ones he uses for teaching, and there are nasty scars all over his arms and legs. He sees his father turn around, and their eyes meet, and Desmond bristles on instinct. The man steps back in just the slightest—was that _fear?_—and he feels lucid and ready to attack if his father comes near him. The other heads notice his father's shift in emotions, and he scowls as he looks back down at the papers. He can hear Lucy join them, asking for permission to talk with them, and as they walk out, he revels in the blessed "quiet." There's the TV in the main foyer, the kids moving in and out, and adults talking and chattering, but it's a happy quiet, and he feels better now that the heads are out of their building. He hums warmly, getting through several missions before rising to go finish up with the littlest kids.

He walks out at the same time the teacher walks them to the facilities, and he grabs the last one, laughing at the smarting punch to the cheek he gets from the little kid for surprising her. The girl recognizes him immediately and apologizes, and he kisses her cheek before placing her on his shoulders and walking with the classes to the gym. They're all eager to start, and he has them warm up before beginning lessons.

They eventually end with the inevitable dodge-pad game. They all line up against the wall, and he tests their reflexes at the same time as playing a fun game as he throws one of the stuffed pads they can attach with Velcro to their arms. Unsurprisingly, it takes him a while to get them all out because his kids are _beasts_. When it finally ends and the parents come gather their children, he exhales happily. He loves this job.

So when he goes strutting around as just Desmond in the underground labyrinth, he's not entirely surprised to see that the other assassins are coming to him with their questions. He's more than happy to help them, because he's had four lifetimes of leading and knowledge to understand what to do and how to help them, and helping the assassins now is much easier than back in Altair's time because everything is so meticulously organized electronically. He spends several hours taking over where his father left off, because his father is an idiot who can't do shit, and he's able to make sure that those things that Bill had said would have to wait until tomorrow were done _now_.

He may hate the order, but he doesn't hate the people, and they have no right to be put off.

He even spends an hour or two in the training facilities, sparing with a young man who wants to pass the second test, the disarming test, within next week. The young man is a brilliant assassin, and he has already passed the hanging test. He's going to be the first one to pass the fighting test, and he, no doubt, will take on tracking Desmond by himself, and Desmond bets he can find him if he slacks in just the slightest.

He'll have to start planning a disguise.

Eventually, the boy has to go, has to prepare for a mission Desmond okayed for him, and as he watches the boy walk off, he can't help but feel a swell of pride in his chest. There is nothing more exciting than watching the graduates at the end of the year get their robes and take the pledge. He loves it. He paces back to his office, finishes some paperwork, and steps into the foyer. He watches the others for a bit before heading to his room and gathering his things for a shower. As he scrubs his scalp in the college-like showers, he can hear two more men enter, and he's glad that he has the noise of the water and the stall to block him from sight.

"It's a pity Bill is still the 'Mentor,'" one of them says, and he can hear the flies being undone as they get ready to pee.

"I know. You wanna hear my theory?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"He treats his son like trash because he knows his son is better. Knew he would be."

The first man laughs, and for once, Desmond feels blessed for being a natural magnet for being in the right place at the right time to listen in, just as Altair was on his missions. When the laughter dies down, he starts scrubbing his body.

"The boy's a loony bin!"

"The boy gets more done than Bill ever did! Remember that request I put in _weeks_ ago for leave to go visit my niece in Colorado—the one getting married?"

"Yeah, I do."

"I asked Desmond for help today, and within _minutes_ he had okayed the travelling time."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, I know. He took one look at the paperwork that Bill had filed away, and checked with the missions and schedule, and even bought the airplane tickets using the funds from the order. I leave Friday, when they ordered the tickets."

"Wait, you're getting leave?"

"I'm even getting pay."

"How?"

The men are done, and he listens to the urinals flush. As they wash their hands, he keeps listening.

"I don't know, but I think Desmond cares more about us as people than the others ever did. Hell, wasn't it him that really started pushing for those kids in the universities to be able to go there on our expense? It's gotta be nice to go through college without having to pay, especially if they're working for us the rest of their life. I think he's all for letting us go out and about. I even talked to him about picking up a second job off the grounds."

"And he said that's okay?"

"He said he doesn't see why it should be a problem. He told me the tech geeks could create fake information for me."

The first man gave a noise of surprise as he listened to the door close. Once it did, he could hear Ezio laugh as the man appeared in the shower, sitting against the door. Desmond ignored him as he rinsed himself off and relaxed under the scalding water.

"Well, sounds like you're doing fine."

He hums noncommittally, his eyes fluttering closed.

"That doesn't change the fact he still has to deal with unwanted negative effects," Ratohnhaké:ton murmurs as he materializes, leaning against the wall.

"It's not _our_ fault."

"That doesn't change anything," the Native American murmurs.

"If we could get rid of Bill, we could clear the way for improvement."

He jerks, opening his eyes to see nothing there. He was pretty sure that was Altair's voice, who he hadn't seen yet, who was still buried under the effects of the medicine. Ezio and Ratohnhaké:ton don't seem to hear him.

"His own dedication blinds him. If the order continues on the path it does now, there will be more disaster to follow."

Desmond understands on several levels. If he ran away, then others will, surely. It's time to round up the assassins as a family once more, rather than as prison mates. But his natural hatred for the order prevents blind dedication, and he can't do it on his own.

"Nor would we let you," the voice murmurs.

He hums, closing his eyes and letting his head tilt back into the water. He can feel the water on the other side of his eyelids, and he realizes this is the longest he's ever been one person in over two years. He's spent most of the day as Desmond, as that _failure_ of an assassin, and he feels okay with that. Nevertheless, he wraps the towel around his waist, realizing that he forgot his clothes in his room, and he frowns as he dries off as best he can with a second towel, gathers his things, and steps into the hallway. He paces down the hallway, noticing the stares he gets from the three girls he trains occasionally in his spare time. The one with the red hair and the bright green eyes is the best of the three, and she's planning on taking the rope test tomorrow. She has a younger brother who's in the youngest group. It's almost alarmingly familiar, the amount of protective love she has for her brother. He tries not to let it show that he can feel their eyes on him as he walks away, down the hall to his room, and walks in before exhaling softly.

He sees Malik standing there, hand on his hip. "Novice, you shouldn't be parading around like that."

"It's not my fault," he murmurs, watching the world slowly dissolve into the grey of the castle as he pulls out his sleeping clothes.

"You _know_ that you're tempting the others when you walk around naked."

"It's not my fault I forgot my clothes," he growls, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stares at the man.

Malik rolls his eyes. "You are an idiot. Perhaps the biggest idiot I've ever made."

"You've made that quite clear," he murmurs, settling down in the mats and the pillows to sleep. "Are you going to come over here or not?"

There's an agitated silence before he falls asleep curled around Malik. And that's okay, because even though Malik would never admit it, he approves of Altair's decisions.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes up, though, there're three bodies in the mats with him, and he knows that Maria must have gotten home sometime last night, which means his boys must have fallen asleep in his bed. Malik must have gotten up early to work. He pulls his wife closer as he presses a sleepy kiss to the top of her head, running his hand up her side. Of course, he can't see if he can fuck her this morning, not if his boys are in the bed. He stirs himself, carefully extracting himself from the bed as Darim rolls in closer to his mother. He chuckles and dresses in his robes, getting ready for the day.

As he walks into the training facilities, he can feel that familiar veil of cotton being thrown over his mind. He's no longer in Masyaf, and he can see the training mats on the floor as he warms up the kids and starts them on their training. They're full of it today, but so is he, and as he wrestles and plays with the kids in between the extensive training sessions, he realizes this is the good life. Ezio, Altair, and Ratohnhaké:ton are all there, and all of them are playing all at once with the kids in this single body, and as the training session winds to a close, the kids are ready for class to sit down and no longer learn round-house kicking or proper grappling techniques, but at least they're all walking away with a laugh.

He frowns when he sees Lucy and the others standing there, with the heads and someone he knew existed, but never actually met personally. He quirks an eyebrow, and they walk over. He scowls when they stop, and he has to stop himself from attacking whoever this is. Ratohnhaké:ton is warning him not to trust whoever this is, and he eyes the person critically. He knows he can overpower her, because there's the slightest hint of a limp to her, something no one else would notice except those who were trained and focusing hard.

"Desmond," Lucy begins, and he flicks on his Eagle Vision to see the three in blue, and the new person and the heads in bright flaming red, "meet Lisa Harbrig. She's a psychiatrist."

He flicks off his Eagle Vision and goes to shake her hand, but Altair doesn't like the idea, and he jerks it back, just going with the motion and making it look like he _meant_ to not shake her hand. He nods instead, giving her a rough greeting, on edge with his father so close to him. The woman smiles warmly, clueless, he and Ezio notice. The woman nods in response.

"I'm the psychiatrist here. They've told me you have—"

And he's got his fist smashed against her nose before he can realize what's going on. Everyone is on the alert, and the woman looks horrified as she clutches her bleeding nose. Lucy and Shaun are helping her, and the heads stand between him and the woman. He meets his father's gaze once he pulls down his hood, and Desmond straightens, puffing himself up slightly. He is more menacing that that fat old man. The background behind them is going wild, and he hisses as he hears all four voices trying to say the same thing.

"_We don't need help._"

He pushes them out of the way and storms out of the facilities. He scares the teenager as he enters his office and sits in his chair, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes and muttering to himself that everything is okay. Eventually, he can hear the child clear her throat.

"Master Miles?"

He looks up, the other three looking up with him.

"I'm here for the rope test."

He blinks, and Ezio helps him get up as Altair grabs the keys, and tells the child that's okay, and they should go before his next class. He remembers that it's Kasey, the redhead from last night that stared at him in the hallway, and as he walks with her, he relaxes slightly. By the time they reach the training facilities again, he's got one arm around her shoulders as she leans into him, laughing at story Ratohnhaké:ton is telling her. The others are still there, and he pays them no mind as undoes the ropes and lets them hang. Kasey is smart: she knows better than to talk to Bill unless addressed while Desmond is in the room.

"Dr. Harbrig? What happened?"

She laughs, and Desmond fetches the dummy from the storage closet. He hoists it over his shoulder as if it were nothing.

"I may have irritated your instructor. I think I overstepped a boundary."

Kasey looks upset as she looks over at him, and he gestures her over. The ropes are long, almost ridiculously so, and they vanish into the ceiling. As the doctor sits at the edge of the mats, Kasey looks at him. He's pissed at thinking that anything would change him if it were suggested by his _dad_.

"What happened, Master Miles?"

"Do you think I need to change?"

She looks surprised. "W-what? No. I like you just the way you are."

His kids' opinions matter. "Are you sure?"

She nods. "You're nicer than the last master, and I think you've done more for us than he ever did."

Briefly, he's reminded of the conversation in the bathroom last night. He nods, once, and grins like a goof.

"Right, enough distraction. Let's get you up these ropes."

She blinks, and laughs, and there's maybe a minute between when he says that and when she reaches the top of the rope. She scampers back down, and he's watching her as she tries to get the body to attach. But there's no Velcro to keep the 160 pounds on her back, and that's all part of the challenge. Eventually, he can't help but laugh as she takes her bra off under her shirt and uses it to ties the dummy's wrists together, and she's off again. He watches her as she climbs much more slowly this time, up and up, until she's hanging halfway up.

"Don't stop, Kasey! You can do this! I know you can!"

He catches movement out of the corner of his eyes, and that damn doctor is coming back over, Kasey is still hanging there, not at the top yet, so he can't start the time, but he watches her intensely. The doctor stops beside him, watching.

"What does she have to do?"

"Get to the top and hang there for a minute between the two ropes—Kasey! I said don't stop! What if this was your brother in a few years? Are you just gonna give up and let both of you die? What if he fucks up his first mission? Prove to me you can take care of him so that I can write you both together into the missions!"

"She's a strong girl."

"And so are you."

The psychiatrist pauses, and he spares just a glance to see the surprise before she chuckles. "I meant, physically."

"So did I."

Kasey is climbing again, and his eyes are glued to her as she climbs, ready, in case she does fall, but he knows he won't have to worry about it.

"I can see it: you were training to be an assassin, weren't you? But something happened. Some injury to your right leg—made you self-conscious, made you give up."

The psychiatrist's lips form a thin line, and he feels her stiffen, that much in tune with those around him. His eyes are still tacked onto Kasey, who's almost gotten to the point where she's hanging between two ropes.

"And I know that you're settling for being a psychiatrist. It's not hard to see. That limp you've retained is the product of letting the heads of the order tell you that couldn't be an assassin anymore. But you can, if you work for it. You can still graduate under our wing. We'll help you."

He blinks, feeling the others stir behind their veils of cotton. Altair is timing Kasey.

"We can train you. I'm not letting you help us until you help yourself, and even then, you won't get rid of us, because I'm not going to let you, because these men driving me to madness make me better, and I'm not getting rid of them because they give me everything I've wanted—a wife, a kid—and my life has been ruined because of the Animus, but any woman who's willing to live with me outside of the craziness is worth it, worth everything, because I'm not worth much outside of who I'm not—Kasey, you're done!"

He watches her climb back down, and he watches her puff up with pride as her feet hit the mat. Ezio hugs her tightly, and he's laughing warmly as she hugs him back, and he hands her the marker to go cross that test off the list after she detaches the dummy. There is no "A," "B," or other letter grade, just pass or fail. He catches the marker as she throws it back.

"Congratulations, Kasey. You're on your way to officially being an assassin!"

She's got his grin smeared across her lips, the one he usually has when he's acting like a goof, and he realizes that he's influencing these kids greatly. He loves the idea of having made an impact on an entire generation. He watches her walk off, and he greets the little kids that come in for their lessons.

The littlest ones didn't even notice Dr. Harbrig, heading straight toward their teacher and dog piling him. He roars playfully and wrestles with them for several minutes before lining them up and drilling them into exhaustion. He loves every minute of it.

By the time the kids are yawning in their parents' arms as they get carried off, he can't help but grin. They're all adorable. He feels Ezio's arm around his shoulder.

"You ought to have children soon."

He blinks, his smile fading.

"My biggest regret was having them so late."

He doesn't have to look at Ezio to know he's got white hair. He doesn't have to look to know they're both staring after the little kids with sad expressions. He doesn't have to look to know that Ezio is thinking about how much he regrets waiting for so long to settle down. Desmond shakes his head.

"Wouldn't work," he murmurs. "No one's gonna have the child of a legitimately insane man. Lucy wouldn't: she's married to her work, and Rebecca—well, there's no telling with her."

"It would do you well. Believe it or not, there is a difference in the way you view these kids, and the way you will view your own."

"That's the worst part," Altair says quietly, and Desmond doesn't have to look to feel his presence beside him. "Their first mission—their first injury—they give you heart-attacks. Especially if you have sons like mine, who hide for several days after their supposed return date."

"I hope mine wouldn't be like that," Desmond says, a grin splitting his lips.

Ezio laughs warmly, and Altair chuckles quietly while Desmond grins as he leans against Ezio's side.

"Yours would be spoiled brats," Altair murmurs, and Ratohnhaké:ton appears, sitting in front of them and resting one arm on his knee.

"Of course they would. They'd be raised in peace time," the Native American says.

"Mine were for most of their lives, I hope," Ezio said.

"I would hardly call seeing your father die when you're so young 'peacetime,'" Altair says.

"I wouldn't call watching your father fall into a depression 'peacetime.'"

He doesn't know who said that, but now there's a tense silence, one that Desmond can feel is weighted with the death of Sef. He can still remember the grief at finding out that news, and Desmond closes his eyes.

"No parent should live longer than his kid."

There's a sad silence as they all just stand there, and he opens an eye when he sees the psychiatrist in training clothes with a determined look on her face as she approached him. He grins again, and so do the others, and he cracks his knuckles as he sends her a knowing look. Those veils of cotton are back, but it's not a bad feeling, because they're "thinner" than normal.

"If I do this, I at least want to talk to you about your mental state, because I do enjoy it."

His grin grows, and he takes her over to the punching bags. "I never said you didn't enjoy it. I said you were settling for being a psychiatrist."

She's silent for a moment, and he starts with figuring out how much her body remembers. It takes them all to figure out how far she is in her training. He ends up with the decision that he'd put her with the adults, and he tells her he'll add her to the list if she wants, but she won't be pushed to graduate this year. She seems content with that, and by the end of their time together, she's doing things only the recruits who have trained with him for hours on end can do. Color him impressed, all four of him. He knew, lurking beneath her skin, that there was power, and that there was a sense of pride that was waiting to be brought out. That limp of hers goes away in less than an hour after they start, and by the end of three, he's pretty sure he's doing to be sporting some ugly bruises. And when they're done, he schedules a meeting with her tomorrow, and she kisses his cheeks lightly to say thank you.

"That won't work as well if he doesn't know you well."

He looks to see Shaun standing there, and Lucy and Rebecca are watching him curiously.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Harbrig."

He laughs and walks over, his arms outstretched, and he hugs the three of them tightly. He's more than a little surprised when he turns his head to kiss Lucy's cheek and he feels warm lips on his, but he hums, pleased, as Shaun's hand slides under his sweaty shirt, and he grins as he steps back at the feel of a tongue on his neck. The psychiatrist is gone, and he can feel the other three stir in the back of his mind as he goes out of the training facilities with a woman in each arm. They walk into the foyer area, and as he locks his door, he gets the feeling of being watched. He frowns, pausing with the key in the lock. It's the distinct feel of the enemy watching him, one that Ezio and the others have felt before—the other men he can't feel right now, and it worries him. His eagle vision comes on and he looks around, the blues muted, which is odd. He can see a smattering of red _everywhere_, and he watches it swirl around, floating, coalescing. He drops the eagle vision, and there's nothing there, so he flicks it back on again.

"It's getting cold in here. Did Bill shut off the heat?" Rebecca complains, rubbing her arms and scowling. "It's always freezing here underground!"

He blinks, watching as the red continues to gather in one spot on the opposite side of the room. Once it's all gathered, it vanishes. Desmond blinks, wondering where the others are, and he drops the eagle vision.

And screams.

Because that is _not okay_ on any level, and nothing in all of heaven or hell would ever make this all right in anyone's mind, and this is _not okay,_ and there will never be anything okay with this, not now that the image pinning him to the door of his office is supposed to be _gone forever_, and those teeth he shouldn't be seeing curl up into the darkest smile he's ever seen that wants to send him into that_ madness _he pulled himself out of. And those eyes.

_Those eyes._

Those tell him that he's _not okay_, and he'd better damn well pull himself out of it—quick.

_It's not okay_.

And that Cheshire grin leans in close to his ear, and he hears a harsh rasp next to his ear.

"Are you sure you didn't miss me?"

But the face is pulling back, and there's tear streams of _blood_ down the image's cheeks, and that visage makes him flinch. Of course he didn't miss him. He never knew the man: how could he miss someone he doesn't know?

"You didn't miss me?"

And this is _not okay_ as the image staggers back. It's going to be burned into his memory forever now.

"_After all I did for you?"_

He stares at the image before him as it disappears, and the room around him flashes to one covered with blood. He jerks from the doorway, hearing voice asking him if he's okay, and why didn't care for "me" as he was cared for. He screams again as the room flashes white again—Abstergo white—and there's drawings all over the wall as he watches his fingers melt off—and _holy shit there's so much blood._

He sees the Chinese appear on the wall, and he sees that it's _his blood _appearing. He watches as the walls bleed into the warm, vibrant colors of the foyer, and he reaches out at the nearest person, who might be Ezio, but might be Shaun, and he has to tell them that _he's back_ and he won't go away, and he watches as his fingers melt—_melt—_right off his hands and fall to the ground as the room flashes again to Abstergo. There's someone in front of him: he sees someone walk in front of him, and he whimpers as he watches—_all the blood, so much of it—_himself bleed out and the walls absorb his own blood. His arms are bright red, and he's losing conscious quickly. Feet pace in front of him, and he cries as he cradles his melting arms in his lap and watches the feet pace back and forth, back and forth.

Arms cross: he meets brown eyes.

The walls are white: he's dying slowly.

Lips frown: he stares into those eyes.

Why?

_Why?_

_This is not okay_.

"It never was, Desmond, and it never will be," the ma—_Clay Kaczmarek—_hisses, and Desmond has never felt more terrified in all his life, because Clay is smarter than him, so much, much smarter. "Did you not even notice me taking over your personality occasionally?"

And here is he, stuck like a fly in a trap, and surely this was all calculated by Clay—but hadn't he died when the Animus deleted him? He needed to know how he was still alive. He needed to know. Perhaps making an appointment with the psychiatrist was the right thing to do. And even though Abstergo's fall had taken out the main brunt of the Templars to allow the assassins to flourish—

"You owe your success to me, you know," Clay growls.

Those eyes are going to haunt him. Those eyes, the ones that he had sworn he would never truly know, now stared at him with this deep-seeded _madness_ that he had assumed only lived in the pictures of that one artist who painted the people in the funny farm. Those eyes were the ones that gave him everything he needed for the fall of the Templar power, and the gaining of the USA and Russia in assassin hands again. Those eyes.

Those eyes.

They were not okay.

They were _insane._

His eyes roll back, and he hears Clay's chilling laughter ring in his ears.

* * *

**Ugh. I'm done posting for now. I'll post the rest later.**


	4. Chapter 4

When he wakes up, he's clinging to someone like a lifeline, and he can still feel the warm blood trickling down his arms. He gasps for breath, and he can feel the woman stir in his arms, and he's trembling as she slowly starts worming around in his arms. His fingers—his stubs of fingers—are still warm, and he's digging them into her back as she wakes up.

"Desmond? Desmond, calm down."

"Ugh, I told you I should have lain on him. Tell him to stop thrashing."

He feels someone stroking his hand, and his fingers are still there. He can feel them being coaxed out from the warm blood that's still fresh and on his fingertips. He chokes on a breath and let's himself be coaxed from the stupor. There's a man's hand linking fingers with one of his hands, and a woman's in the other, and he feels a set of callused hands grip his hair. He swallows right before there're gentle kisses being placed on each of his eyelids, and he opens his eyes to see Lucy staring down at him.

"Desmond?"

He blinks. "L-Lucy?"

She kisses him softly, and he finds himself wrapping his arms around her as best he can before he breaks the kiss and hugs her tightly. He blinks, noticing that Shaun is stirring beside him, and Rebecca is on his other side.

"What happened yesterday?" Rebecca asks, rolling on her side. "You had a full-blown panic attack."

He blinks again as he lets Lucy kiss him, and when she pulls back, he wants to tell them about Clay, but something inside him, something nagging at the corner of his mind, tell him not to.

"I… thought I saw a ghost."

"Really, Desmond, you should be used to that by now."

"Be quiet, Shaun."

What worries him most is the fact that he can't feel those pleasant veils of cotton over his mind, and as he lays there, Lucy on top of him and a partner at either side, the cotton slowly gets unwrapped, lying over his eyes and brain. Ezio is murmuring in the back of his mind with Ratohnhaké:ton, and he can feel Altair, like a weight, just behind his eyelids and trickling through his blood. He smiles as Lucy kisses him, slowly and languidly, and he feels so good, despite the now-mounting paranoia. He needs to know what Clay's motives are, and what his ultimate plan is for them. When he hears Lucy's shocked gasp and Rebecca's laughter, he blinks, wondering what's going on.

"So, Desmond, you need to have kids, huh?" Rebecca says, and he has to blink because he doesn't know why she's asking him.

His answer is, "Of course."

"'Cause Ezio said he wants Lucy to have babies for you."

His eyes widen, and his entire face heats up. He shouldn't be so embarrassed, but what a thing to ask a woman he's not even married to. He hisses at Ezio in the back of his mind, and he's alarmed that both Ezio and Ratohnhaké:ton agree that he should be having children now. Altair tells him that it might be a good idea, that he'll still live a long time, and that he might even be able to see his great-grandchildren. He can feel excitement in his stomach: that would be an incredible thing to see, but as he tries to calm himself down, he can feel Lucy's embarrassment as well. He offers a tentative smile, and Rebecca and Shaun laugh.

"You'd better get on that, Lucy, before Ezio comes out and tricks you into making a baby before you know what's happening."

Lucy's face is bright red, and he can't help but be amused as he runs his knuckles along her spine.

"Ugh. Keep it in your pants a while longer, ape," Shaun hisses, "I'm not moving."

"Don't worry, Shaun, we're not going to be doing it anytime soon," Lucy murmured.

"I dunno, Lucy," Rebecca says, grinning like a demon, "I wouldn't mind a rugrat around here. And Ezio made it obvious he would _much_ prefer your kids to mine."

"Rebecca," she says in that tone that warns him that this is not going to be discussed now. "Besides, he's only thirty."

And he snorts. "I want kids early. I want to live just as long as I can with them in my life."

He blinks, hearing Ezio murmur in the back of his mind, and he chuckles at whatever he's saying, because as he closes his eyes, he can feel Altair wrap him in his "arms," and he feels so at home with his ancestors there to help take care of him. When he wakes up next, he's saying goodbye to the eldest of the three groups of scheduled students he works with. All that's left are the youngest, and he already feels giddy. When the little kids come charging in with Lucy and the others, he can't help but smile at them and feel just so utterly content that the two hour session goes by much too quickly for him to register. After they've left, he smiles at his three partners and offers to let them come to his office if they like, and he won't say he's not disappointed when they don't stay and chat with him.

So he busies himself with paperwork and other things, and by seven, he's completely done. He rises, and all four of him are more than pleased with the fact that they've finished the paperwork. As he closes his office door, he thinks he sees Clay standing in the corner, but when he checks, the man isn't there. He frowns and dismisses it as residual paranoia from the panic attack last night. He feels Lucy take his hand, and he looks over his shoulder smiling at her as he locks the door with his other hand.

"We want to go out. Want to come with?"

"Sure. Where are we going?"

"To a Chinese buffet."

"Sounds good."

He lets her pull him out of the underground compound and into the streets of New York. He had one arm wrapped around Lucy's waist as Rebecca and Shaun walked on his other side, walking hand-in-hand. They enter the small restaurant, out of the way of most tourists, and are seated immediately. He sits down while the other three get their food, and he watches the girls' bags. Once Shaun comes back, he gets up, fetches himself some food, and returns to scoot in by Lucy, who turns and kisses him gently.

Desmond can feel himself click back into place, and he starts wolfing down the food. He eats more than enough for the price they have to pay for his meal, and by the time he's done, he knows he's going to be hungry again in two hours because that's just the way Chinese food works. He leans back, his hands on his stomach, and smiles when he feels Lucy's hand on his. He squeezes her hand back lightly, enjoying being around her, and he covers his mouth with his hand as he burps. Shaun tells him how incredibly rude that was, and all Desmond can do is laugh. It doesn't take much longer before they're all done and paid for, and he's walking home with Lucy in his arms as he peppers her with kisses. As they walk through the door, he sees the psychiatrist waiting for him, and he smiles warmly. He'll tell her about everything.

He kisses Lucy and Shaun farewell, and he follows Dr. Harbrig to a homely little room. Still, just out of curiosity, he wants to flick on his Eagle Vision to see what she is. After all, she had been red when he first saw her, and was presumably now still. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see the calm blue sitting in a chair, and he sits in a chair near hers so he can face her. He relaxes into the chair, sinking into the cushions and closing his eyes momentarily. Ezio berates him for ignoring a young woman like Dr. Harbrig, and Ratohnhaké:ton tells the older to shut up because he should be comfortable before he starts talking. He feels Altair's arms around him mentally, and he hums quietly. It was remarkable, really, how addicted to touch Altair was once he discovered the joys of it. He remembers the hours he spent holding Maria, the way he used to just press the palm of his hand against his sons' backs just to feel them beneath him, the millions of times he would just rest his head on Malik's shoulder as he straddled the man late at night. He remembers the way he would reach out to touch a novices who had a bad hand on something, instead of just telling them how to fix it—he remembers the way he used to wrestle with his boys to the point of getting in trouble for not doing his work, and he remembers the way he trailed his fingers over Maria's body every time they were intimate. When he wakes up next, he's got his hands folded over his stomach, and he feels utterly relaxed as Ratohnhaké:ton sings quietly in the back of his mind.

"Oh, my, so that wasn't you who was flirting with me."

"Hm?"

"That charming older gentleman—"

"Ezio," he murmurs, feeling a mild chill as all of a sudden the other three vanish.

He frowns, straightening and looking around.

"Is something wrong?"

"Ah… I don't think so."

He flicks on his Eagle Vision, and there, on the bookshelf behind the couch—he had no idea when he had moved—is a dripping, purplish ooze. He flicks it off again, hoping to see something, having never seen purple before, but he sees nothing.

"Desmond?"

He waved a hand at her to get her to shut up, because he's pretty damn sure he knows who this is, and he watches as the purple ooze slides slowly to the floor in a puddle, and after a bit, it's just a smear on the books, and the purple itself dissipates like fog in the sun. He flicks off the Eagle Vision, and sees no one, so he turns around.

And nearly screams.

He sees two bugging, wide eyes, the color of madness as two firm hands grab his cheeks and the head twitches to the side.

But there's something else wrong.

The man's face is upside down, and those lips are slightly parted as those wide eyes stare back at him. He's crouching on the back of the couch, hunched over his head, and he's not even sure that's possible as he stops breathing, holding his breath as his muscles tense. They stare at each other for a while, and Clay blinks, his eyes wide and almost panicked as he seems to be assessing him. He's almost certain the man can read his entire life in his eyes.

"You'," Clay breathes out and sucks in a breath all at the same time, and he seems to melt off the back before straightening up like someone jammed a stun baton up his ass.

The man slinks around the couch and sits, stiffly, staring into nothing, and he blinks when he feels a hand on his leg, and it's the doctor's.

"Desmond?"

He looks over once more at Clay, who seems to have melted into the couch by the way he's sprawled.

"Uh, yeah? Sorry. Personal problem. You see, recently, another person seems to have taken up residence in my head… well, I think my head."

"I'—no you aren't—yesIamIwillIpromise—No—Yes—n-No!"

He jumps at the shrill scream, and Clay fists his finger in his hair and pulls as his eyes bugging again as he twitches violently and then looks at him and _snarls_. He frowns, pulling back just in the slightest.

"_You'd better not tell them about me, you self-centered freak!_"

It ends in a shrill hiss as the man slides to the floor, and Desmond picks his feet up and puts them on the couch, his eyes wide as the man writhes for just a minute before falling deathly silent. Those eyes are staring, lifeless, at the ceiling.

"Desmond, what's wrong?"

He looks at the doctor and decides to speak quickly. "It's the man who helped me in the Animus—he went mad and is now haunting me," he looks to the side and sees that Clay has vanished, then back at the doctor, "and I don't know why, but whenever he's around, Ezio, Altair, and Ratohnhaké:ton don't come, at least this is twice now and—" In the corner of his eye, he sees Clay emerging from the ground, his arms crossed and a narrowed, displeased look on his face. "And it's not like I can blame him 'cause he was forced into that hell much worse than I ever was, Christ, Clay, just—"

His breath catches in his throat as Clay appears in front of him, pinning him to the couch and a _mad_ look in his eye. The man's breath is warm against his face, and he can feel the heat of his skin as he leans in close, his mouth frowning.

"Desmond, Desmond, Desmond, I thought this was going to be our little secret."

"It wouldn't have mattered," he hisses in response. "They would have figured it out."

Clay's lips split into a manic, dark grin. "Of course. The game was to see if I could drive you crazy first—before they found out."

He growls, and Clay chuckles. Much to Desmond's chagrin, he finds himself attracted to it in the same way he's attracted to Altair's touching, or Ratohnhaké:ton's tribal singing, or Ezio's talking. He swallows.

"What's that, Dessie? You _enjoy_ my mad company?"

"I-I do not!" he hisses, snarling, and Clay laughs—yup, he thinks, it's that laugh that's doing him in. "I don't want a madman living in my head!"

"You're wrong, Desu-Desu," Clay hisses gleefully, his body disappearing like smoke and leaving behind those eyes and mouth. "_We're all mad here._"

He blinks, and those eyes are gone. He looks around and sees the doctor, hovering, and he smiles warmly, that chill in his skin gone. It's clear that she' never dealt with a patient like him, probably more accustomed to PTSD symptoms and things.

"We're fine now. He's gone for the time being."

"For the time being? Who is he?"

He explains to her all about Clay and all the help he's given him. He tell her about how he was his guiding light at the darkest hour, and how he went mad and killed himself. He tells her about everything there is to know about him and Clay and Ezio and Ratohnhaké:ton and Altair all in a few hours, and he feels as if a world has been lifted off his shoulders when he's done.

There's a knock at the door, and it's for her next patient, and he leaves a little reluctantly, swearing to murder Clay again if he tries to do anything freaky to the doctor. He wrinkles his nose, not wanting to admit that as that laugh is heard in the back of his mind, right before he can hear the other three come back, that he is hopelessly attracted to it.

He shoves his hands in his pockets as he hunches over and keeps walking down the hallway, through the foyer, and into the dorm-like wing of the compound. He yelps when an arm comes out of nowhere and pulls him into the bathroom, and it takes him a minute to register that it's the _girls' _bathroom, and all the women are staring at him as he presented with one extremely naked Rebecca. He blinks, keeping his eyes on the rest of the women who are all giggling, and he feels his face heat up as he backs for the door. Rebecca grins like a goof.

"Come on, Des. Didn't you say you wanted an ankle-biter of your own?"

He blinks.

_What?_

"Well?"

He must be giving her a deer-in-the-headlights look because she and the other women are laughing, and his entire face feels warm.

"Look, if you're waiting for Lucy, it's not gonna happen. I've never seen a woman more married to her work than her. So, I talked it over with Shaun, and we both agreed if it will keep Ezio from coming out to screw every woman he sees here for a kid," she winks, "I'd give you one."

He can feel Ezio chuckle quietly in the back of his mind, the proverbial "high-five" between Ezio and Ratohnhaké:ton as Altair murmurs to him that everything will be fine and he can still just walk out if he wants to. He swallows, and his legs aren't his own as he steps forward and sees Maria standing there, that alluring smile on her face as she gestures him forward again, and he finds himself being drawn into a shower as he smirks. The walls melt back into the dorm-like showers, and he watches her as she locks the door and looks at him. There's something surprisingly seductive about Rebecca, he muses, as she steps forward with that sway of her hips as she starts to undress him without letting him help. Once he's standing naked, she places her hands on his chest and pushes against him, that challenging smirk on her lips as she leans up for a kiss. His hands find their way to her hips on their own before he leans in to kiss her deeply, and he has to say it's probably the best damn thing he's felt in a long time before she pulls away to turn on the shower.

And by the time Desmond's leaning against her as he lets the afterglow of sex in the shower wear off, he can't keep his hands still courtesy of Altair, one arm holding her up and the other hand pressing her closer as he nuzzles against her neck and exhales with the feel of the hot water running down his back. And then he realizes he doesn't remember any of it. He must have been anyone but himself, and while he's disappointed, he realizes it all probably for the best, because his ancestors are probably better in bed than he is, but that's okay, because he's not good for much. Ratohnhaké:ton is singing in the back of his mind as he slowly stops feeling the need to touch Rebecca, and he steps away, forcing a grin. Rebecca is leaning against the wall, looking _inordinately_ pleased. And he supposes that it's okay that he's actually that much of a mess-up if Rebecca looks that pleased.

"Christ, Desmond. You are _hot_."

He laughs. "No, I don't think it's me."

She grins. "No, definitely you."

He shakes his head, trying to keep the feeling of absolute disappointment from his mind—he is so _useless._ Still, he takes her offered towel before she rubs her stomach as she wiggles.

"All righties, magic sperm of Ezio's descent, you'd better get to working."

He laughs, unable to help himself. "Careful, or you might get twins."

She pauses, then laughs, once, and gives her stomach a challenging grin. "Ha! You hear that, sperms? Better get to work, bitches! I'm expecting to lose my period this month, thanks!"

He rolls his eyes and walks out with her by his side, and she looks far too happy for everything she's just done. Still, when he walks into his room and finds Shaun waiting, he can't even bring himself to feel disappointed by the thumbs-up and the eye roll. Rebecca is more than happy to sleep with him that night, and as he drifts off to sleep, he thinks he catches Clay in the corner of his eye glaring.


	5. Chapter 5

And when he wakes the next morning, he feels energized and raring to go. He pads out to start the classes, and all the kids seem happier. He's excited and full of it, and the kids are more than happy to oblige him and wear him out. After he's done, he stands on the mats, and Ezio and the others are silent. He flicks on his Eagle Vision, a sinking feeling in his stomach. There's a bright red smudge just floating through the air, like a ribbon on the wind. He looks when he sees a fuzz of blue, and it looks like an image of Clay glitching into two of him before disappearing. It happens again, to the left, and he looks as that ribbon gets closer, still fluttering, and there's Clay splintering into two again and then there's two of them breaking into two, and the ribbon is still fluttering toward him, and then again, there's more Clays breaking into more Clays, and that ribbon comes dancing down, swirling around him and caressing him before wrapping itself around his throat. He panics slightly, reaching up to pull it away as it starts to tighten _and he can feel it_. He scrabbles at it, hoping and praying he's not going to die as he coughs and breathes in raggedly. He tugs on it as he gags, his arms twitching as he tries to grab the ribbon that isn't really there. He can feel his head getting lighter as he struggles for breath because even though he can't feel the ribbon, he can feel it choking him. In a last ditch attempt, he flicks off the Eagle Vision and jumps at the frowning image of Clay standing near the door to the gym.

"I thought you were going to choke yourself for a minute there," the man says with a sinister smirk.

He gasps for breath, and when Clay steps onto the mat with those predatory, languid steps, he frowns, backing up. The man finds great enjoyment out of this, laughing as he steps forward again, slowly backing him up until his back is pressed against one of the punching bags and Clay is leaning in, hands in his pockets, looking damn _smug_. He, in turn, scowls.

"What do you want, Clay?"

That creepyass grin splits his face, and the man is so close he can feel his breath. "What I want, Desmond, is for you and I to live in peace together."

"Yeah, well, you ain't helping that image at all," he growls, and Clay throws his head back and laughs, and it's the kind of laughter that he images only a truly _mad_ person would make, and those eyes are lit with mirth when he finally sees them again.

"Oh, Desmond, if only you _knew_ how much I was helping you! Oh, Desmond, oh Desmond."

The man shakes his head, giving him a grin that reminds him vaguely of someone about to eat a baby. Clay tilts his head, that grin turning into a grimace, and he spins around, bending over as if to stretch with his hands still in his pockets before backing off a bit, rocking on his heels as if he were on the edge of a mental breakdown. He chooses not to move in case Clay does something drastic, but when the man starts giggling, repeating a mantra of "Oh, Desmond, oh Dessie, oh Des," he slowly moves from the punching bag in hopes of getting around him. Clay hunches over and rocks, the amused tone turning into something hysterical and almost heart-wrenching, and he swallows. Part of him is moved, and he holds his hands out while he walks toward him as if he were approaching a child, praying he won't die yet.

"Hey now, I'm sure we can reach an agreement. I've already got three other guys living in my head, I'm sure they'd welcome a fifth."

Clay stops, looking up at him, and seems to brighten considerably. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive, Clay," he murmurs as he slowly crouches in front of him. "I'm certain."

The man meets his gaze for a while, and he tries to convey a reassuring smile, and then he's on the floor, being hugged by the crazy guy. He blinks and hugs him back, and then Clay stands up, offering him a hand, and starts laughing. It's a manic look on his face, and he's never going to get used to the quick change, crazy emotions the guy displays.

"Nah, I think I'll stick around outside just a little long and continue to fuck with you."

The man disappears without another word, and suddenly, he feels extremely concerned. With a soft sigh, he rakes his hand through his hair as he hears Ezio's murmuring getting louder before he sees the older man appear in front of him, frowning. He meets the man's eyes and frowns back.

"A cold wind blows over your mind," Ezio murmurs. "When we reside in your mind, a cold wind blows, and we can't reach you."

He frowns. "Really?"

"Yes. What happens? Are they putting you on medications?"

"No—"

"Have you ever considered perhaps he doesn't want us?" Ratohnhaké:ton mutters as he appears, sitting a ways in front of him. "We are allegedly the ones making him crazy, and with children on the way, he might not want us around."

"That's bullshit," Desmond growls. "It's Clay. Subject Sixteen. He's trying to drive me crazy."

Ratohnhaké:ton looks at him and nods. "How do we get rid of him?"

"Perhaps the Apple can help?" Altair says quietly.

Desmond looks at him. "No. The Pieces of Eden are dead forever. Leave them alone."

Altair frowns but says nothing more. He turns back to Ezio, who has moved beside Ratohnhaké:ton. He needs to find a way to reach an agreement with Clay quickly, even if it means sacrificing some control over his body and mind. He doesn't want to end up in a loony bin before he sees his child.

With a sigh, he paces out of the room and into his office to get some work done, and he doesn't see Clay for a while, not when he bleeds one of his ancestors, not when he speaks to Rebecca, Shaun, or Lucy, not when he plays with the kids or tests a student, and he's getting a little freaked out. He knows that Clay is the king of mindfuck. He knows this—and he fears it. That is not okay. He's going to turn into Sibrand if he didn't figure shit out soon.

He bleeds into his ancestors several times, once when he wakes up with Rebecca and the others in his bed as young Ezio. Another time, after Rebecca comes dancing into the room cheering about how she was _done_ for nine months, he bleeds Altair heavily, talking in Arabic and seeing Maria as he touches her stomach gently and kisses her. He spends all day walking the halls of Masyaf, his swagger most pronounced and smiling like a goof. He bleeds Ratohnhaké:ton when a little kid twists his ankle. He wraps it and picks him up, and then he's back to normal as he comforts the child, swaying and rubbing his back before setting him on his shoulders as he lets him help him give orders.

So when he _finally_ sees Clay come strolling into his office after all his classes are done almost two weeks later, he can help but frown and snarl. He's been anticipating this "attack" ever since the last one, and he doubts he's come on peaceful terms.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Just came to bug you."

That is not okay.

"Get the hell out."

The man has a shit-eating grin, leaning forward with his hands in his pockets. "Pardon?"

Desmond rises, his hands planted on the desk as he snarls. "Get the hell out of my office. You're not welcome here."

"I'm a part of you."

He snaps a little inside. He can't help it, but this anger is something he's been avoiding for far too long—this anger that had been roiling inside of him ever since he ran away and has only built since then.

"You will _never_ be a part of me or my life! Get the hell out and leave me alone! You blatantly ignored my advances for peace!"

"Oh, don't be sour. I'm looking out for you."

"For me? For _me?_ You should have been concerned for _me_ when the symptoms started getting bad! You should be concerned for _the rest of the Order_! You're driving me _crazy!_ I _hate_ you! You-you're a fucking _disease_ that this Order needs to get rid of! That _I _need to get rid of! You're going to _destroy_ everything I've built up! You've played your part—_now die._"

Clay laughs, throwing his head back with that chilling laughter he loves before looking at him, absolutely crazy. "I'm glad you told me how you felt."

He blinks as Clay vanishes, only to see his father standing there with the others of the heads of the Order. The blood drains from his face, and his eyes grow wide. He's in deep shit now, and he can hear Clay's laughter just behind him. William looks thoroughly surprised at his outburst, and, surprisingly, he feels rather good about knowing his father heard all that.

"See?" he hears, and he resists the urge to look, his face going from frightened to frowning in a matter of seconds. Clay walks over and sits on a clear spot on Desmond's desk, giving him an "I-told-you-so" look. "I'm simply looking out for my DesuDesu."

His eyes narrow, and his lips twitch as he fights the urge to snarl. There's a tense silence hanging over them as he refuses to look away from his father's gaze. He's not going to let him win this. He can't. Not now that everything he thinks about his father (about Clay) is on the table and open for examination. His father's emotionless mask slips into something disapproving—something he's so used to it's not okay.

"I see…" his father says slowly, as if he's thinking. "Is that all?"

Desmond swallows. "No," he wants to say, and Clay whispering into his ear is making it harder to ignore his impulses. That anger is still there, still bubbling, and he can feel it, and it's going to be terrible if someone says one wrong thing.

"Come on, Dessie, you've come so far in rebuilding your relationship with your father," he pauses to laugh. "Go ahead—let him have it. You can't say anything worse."

And it feels as if all of his anger explodes from inside him. He pounds his fists on the desk and screeches, his eyes burning with fury. He doesn't know how Clay can do this—how he can get all of these crazy emotions stirred up within him.

"Of course that's not all!" he yells. "If anything, that's just the beginning! You're a bastard, you godless _heathen!_ All my life was fucked up because of you! I'm willing to place money on the fact that mom committed suicide because of you! I read her files! I bet it was because you! I bet it was because of the fact she knew _you_ were the biggest reason I ran away! I bet _you_ drove her to suicide, too! You fucking bastard! I _hate_ you! You made _everything_ miserable! _You're the reason I'm such a fucking mess!"_

He's screeching now. He can't help it. It's all coming out. Anger at being held captive. Anger at being in hiding. Anger at being forced into the Animus. Anger at the others letting him get so bad. _Anger at never being good enough. __**Anger at nothing being okay in his life.**_

"And it's _your_ fault I'm this crazy because you're the one who always told me I had to be better—_so I started bleeding the others on purpose!_ Is that better for you, _dad?_ Are you happy with the way I am now, _daddy?_ Am I _finally_ living up to your expectations? Or are you _still _not satisfied? Will I be good enough once I'm _dead? _Maybe like _Clay?_ Yeah, him! Do you even remember him? I bet you thought he was _perfect, _didn't you? Willing to do whatever it took to help the assassins while your own _pathetic_ son ran away?"

"Hey now, don't bring me into it!"

He snarls, and he knows that Clay knows it's directed at him. He's trembling with rage, and he needs to go work out, run the cityscape—do something to release this anger positively. His father still looks emotionless, and all he wants to do is pound his father's stupid face in until that mask breaks. His father frowns—disapprovingly!—again and shakes his head.

"Well. I'm sorry you feel that way."

And when his father turns around to walk out, that final thread in Desmond just fucking _snaps._ He's jumping onto his desk and screaming, "Don't you dare turn your back on me again!" as he jumps off and lands on the old coot's back, his fist connecting solidly with his father's nose as the man turns and his hidden blade slides out and cuts through his shoulder, pinning him to the floor.

Attacking an old man really is satisfying, he thinks as his hands and feet move on their own.

And in his mind, Altair agrees.

And they can't pull him off his father, he notes, because he's _too fast, too strong, and too built to kill, _and he's lived four lives worth of killing and fighting and training, and he's a monster that he knows can't be stopped_. Not now, not ever, and it's their fault he's that this way._ He's laughing when he finally stops beating his father up, giggling like a madman while he cries and screams that his father is a bastard who deserves to burn in Hell. He's snorting and pulling out his hair and carving himself up like a turkey on accident with the blade as he scratches himself because he _just can't control himself anymore_, and he knows that not all of it is his fault (_none_ of it is his fault), but that part of him _is _channeling Clay because he can feel him in him. His father staggers to his feet, trying his best not to pass out on the floor as he bleeds all over the damn place, and then Desmond's _licking_ his hidden blade, _reveling_ in the taste of his father's blood and _relishing_ that horrified look as "daddy dearest" realizes just what has happened to his son.

Slowly, his breathing evens out, and his face relaxes, and he stares at his father, feeling calm and emotionally drained. He hears his hidden blade going back into the bracer, and everyone is still still. There're two medics attending his father, who is still looking at him with a wary and slightly pitiful look. Desmond blinks, not even caring that his father is giving him this look, and inhales deeply. Then, he gazes out at the adults standing there, pleased that the kids aren't there. He feels exhausted, but he should probably clean up before taking a nap. Today has been entirely too stressful in the past hour or such. He's staring at his father, and his lip twitches.

"Stay out of my way, _dad._ I've got four generations of men in my head. I've got their families and their memories to make me feel less lonely and give me _fake_ memories of what a family should be like. So don't come near me—_and don't you dare come near my kid when it's born._"

And he admits to himself, and to Ezio, and to Altair, and to Ratohnhaké:ton, and to Clay, as they all walk down the hallways, perhaps entirely too calmly, that the look of utter shock on his father's face was the best look he's seen in a long time.

He takes his time in the showers after grabbing a medical kit, letting the hot water ease away his tensions, and he can feel the other three around him. He can feel Clay hanging back, perhaps slightly afraid of the other four men. Ezio is in his middle-aged form, watching him as he scrubs his scalp under the searing water, leaning against the door to the shower stall, and Ratohnhaké:ton is sitting to his side, quiet. Altair left a bit ago to go talk to Clay outside the shower stall, and he can't help but wonder what they're talking about. With a sigh, he rinses the suds from his hair and scrubs himself down before he examines the injuries he gave himself. He stitches up several wounds on his arms, and one across his torso, all looking like wounds from the hidden blade, and he wraps the claw marks and the stitches in gauze and medical tape before wrapping the towel around his waist and walking into the hallway. He's almost pleased to note that the people walking the halls move out of his way—until a little kid comes careening toward him, and he's scooping the kid up before he knows what he's doing.

"Hey there, Blain, how are you?"

"Master Miles, why you always walk around the halls in a towel?"

"I don't _always_ walk around in a towel."

He can see the people watching him with the child. They're nervous now. Blain giggles, wrapping his arms around his neck and hugging him. He kisses his head as he walks to the boy's room.

"They whisper. They say you did something bad, Master Miles."

"I did."

"Why aren't you trying to fix it?"

"Do you remember that rhyme I taught you guys a while ago? For every evil under the sun…"

"There is a remedy, or there is none," the little guy cites.

"If there be one…"

"Try to find it, and if there be none, never mind it!" Blain cries. "So are you saying there's no fix?"

He shakes his head, and his heart breaks as Blain hugs him tightly.

"Are you gonna get fired?"

He blinks, then pulls Blain loose and looks him square in the eyes. He can see the tears starting to well.

"No," he says firmly. "No. And don't go around saying that either. They can't fire me, and I won't let them, so no spreading lies. Understand?"

The little boy nods, hugging him tightly again, and he sighs. He knows it futile to try to stop this. It's going to spread like wildfire for a while, until every little kid attacks him and asks him not to leave, and he tells them all that he's not leaving. He drops him off after knocking at the door, and he's not entirely surprised at the shocked look Blain's mother gives him or the roaming eyes over his towel and gauze-clad body.

"He came barreling at me in the hallway. I figured I should return him," he murmurs with a laugh. "He's a great kid."

The mother smiles, apparently not too put-off by his attack, and then her face grows solemn and she sends Blain into the room while stepping out.

"Desmond, your father is in the hospital."

He blinks, and Ezio tells him it's best to put on a show, so he winces and scratches the back of his neck.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, he collapsed shortly after you walked away."

He looks at the floor and rubs his neck.

"I guess I should go apologize."

"What happened?"

He sighs, looking at the ceiling.

"All my life," he begins, "I've done nothing but been berated and ignored by my father. I've never been good enough. It was going to happen eventually. And, to be honest, my own mental problems have been getting worse. The kids have been the only thing, really, to help me cope, but even that's just during the day—usually, I'm doing paperwork until I fall asleep because the other heads have grown so… inadequate, and my father coming into criticize me was just the last straw for him, I guess, since I've been doing so much more than he has."

The woman is quiet for a moment, and he briefly thinks that her name is Angie. He's quiet, letting her think, still avoiding eye contact because Ezio is right, and it is best to act ashamed and humbled. Eventually, he sees her getting ready to speak, and he falls still, waiting to see what she says.

"You know," she murmurs quietly, "I have seen the Order make more progress since you came."

He looks at his feet, shuffling his shoes. "He's driving me crazy—crazier than I am already. I don't get how you can have a kid and _not_ want to be, well, a father. My mother always thought I was the greatest gift she ever got."

She almost looks pained, and she's quiet a while longer before she speaks again, choosing her words carefully.

"I don't know if you knew this, but while you were in the hospital, it was a subtle difference, but he was worried, I would believe."

Desmond snorts. "I doubt that." He crosses his arms. "He's never cared, just so long as I stayed loyal to the Order. He was always more concerned about his work."

She offers him a small smile. "You don't know this—you _won't_ know this—but it's impossible for any parent _not_ to not care about their child if it was planned."

He sighs, knowing better than to argue with her that actually, yeah, parents will still hate their kids. "I guess so. I wasn't planned, probably."

"Actually, I was on the Farm your parents were on when you were born. Your mother was beaming with pride after she found out her planned pregnancy had worked."

"Yeah," he chuckles humorlessly, "but notice how we're not talking about my dad. Just my mom."

She laughs. "Fair enough. Still, you should give your father a second chance."

He looks away, shaking his head. "I guess… but I doubt there's any room for him to change. He doesn't care about me as a person, just me as an assassin. Anyway, I gotta get some clothes on. I'll talk to you later?"

Desmond offers a sad smile when she says farewell, and he walks back to his room quickly, dressing in warm clothes and curling under the blankets. He's asleep before his head hits the pillow. That night, he dreams of Giovanni and Maria, and he wakes up crying as the bodies drop. He lies there, feeling the sad ache deep in his bones, an ache that he shouldn't know. His brothers are dead, he muses. His father is dead, and his mother is unresponsive. He can feel the bodies of the courtesans beside him, still asleep, and that ache is in his heart again as he tries to keep the tears from flowing, but it doesn't work. The courtesans wake, and they lend him a shoulder to sob on as he cries until he realizes he has to go up and train the novices. He dresses reluctantly into loose, comfy clothing, and he goes through his daily morning routine before pacing into the gym.

And he feels his heart soar at the scream from the kids just before he's covered by a pile of young children.

He roars as he scoops them up, one in each arm and two more hanging on each while the others latch on. He loves this job with all his heart, and as he slowly corrals them into their rows to have them train, he catches a glimpse of Giovanni and his brothers standing there, smiling. It fills him with inexplicable warmth that lasts throughout the lesson. By the time the lesson is over, he's on his back on the mats, smiling as he closes his eyes and slowly comes back down from his not-himself phase.

"You're smiling again," he hears, and his eyes snap open to see Malik looking down at him, almost smiling himself. "What on earth could you be thinking about now? Don't tell me Maria and the boys. I don't need to hear—"

"Very well then," he says in an amused tone, "I'm thinking of you, Malik."

He laughs as the man doesn't quite get it at first, so he takes it as his right to continue. "I'm thinking about how fortunate I am to have a friend like you, to have shared so many nights with you, to have found a woman who understands my need for you and accepts you into our bed. I am thinking about the times we spend in the garden—"

"Just stop," Malik hisses, but he's pleased to note the tips of his ears are pink despite the scowl. "You sound like a love-struck fool."

"I _am _a love-struck fool, Malik. Accept it."

"I cannot accept that the 'Great Eagle of Masyaf,' under the influence of a _woman_, no less, is turned into a sappy, gooey mess of an assassin."

He smirks, reaching out and taking Malik's hand when he sits. "Very well, do not accept it so. But facts are still facts."

"Then you should disprove it." He looks up at him, and Malik rolls his eyes, trying to hide the amused smile. "You are an idiot, Altair."

"And I would not be alive without you."

He snorts when Malik groans and scowls at him.

"No more of this flowery nonsense. I will hear none of it."

"Very well."

He falls into a comfortable silence, the heat of the sun warming his skin as he thinks about his children—and how he has one on the way, now, one of his own, one to spoil, one to raise, and one to shower with everything his father failed to do for him. He cracks open an eye when the next group enters, and he bites his lip to try and hide his smile as the teens try their best to sneak up on him. He's always told them that if they can frighten him, he'll take them out for dinner. They haven't managed to do so yet, but he believes they're crafty enough they'll figure something out. They've already tried to pull off the injury, and it doesn't work. He's learned to remain calm.

When they finally make their move, he just opens up an eye and listens to the "Awwwwwww" of disappointment. He chuckles, running them through their exercises and pushing them hard. He breezes through the rest of the day, and the littlest kids are still his favorite time of the day. Nevertheless, when all is said and done, after he's passed two more students on the first test, one on the second test, and set the date for the third one, he works himself well into the night on paperwork he's been given. He's ready for it, and as it approaches one in the morning, he yawns, stretches, closes his eyes, and leans back in his chair.

"You should go visit your father."

He quirks an eyebrow as he opens an eye to see George Washington standing there.


	6. Chapter 6

"Connor, he's still your father. You're lucky he hasn't been killed."

He's quiet, but his silence is something Washington is good at reading.

"Your father is British. You cannot escape this fact."

"I do not deny this fact."

"Your pride in the Mohawk Indians is misplaced. Your people affiliated with the Redcoats."

He says nothing, staring at the general as if he were sizing up an enemy.

"While you feel as if you betrayed your family, and they betrayed you, you are one of the few who are still lucky enough to have an entire family here."

"Then I am to support the enemy?"

"No, Connor. Listen closely," Washington says with a sigh. "You are to support your family."

"You are my family."

"Connor," the good general snaps, and Ratohnhaké:ton knows better than to speak now. "You delude yourself. You claim pride in your Native American heritage, yet you refuse to affiliate with your British ancestry. You are a hypocrite—for they both fought for the same side, and what possesses you to support _one_ when both of them are for same reason?"

He rises and faces the good general when he walks over. The man places his hands on his arms.

"Connor, we fight for our freedom, but you cannot fight with these chains on you. Resolve them, and you will be free to fight for the truth. You are an assassin. You must first be able to see the truth to fight properly for it."

He blinks, and he realizes that he has been in error. He _cannot_ say he supports his mother's side when his mother's side fought for the British.

"You are a good man, Connor. Better than we, for certain. Do not lose sight of what we fight for. Liberty, yes, and the pursuit of happiness, yes, but also for _life_—and where does life begin but with our families? I am not saying to desert the colonists, but simply to be at peace, so that there are no loose ends when we win the Revolutionary War. Those of us here are all on the same side, if not, then we have no contact or have been disowned. As far as I have heard, as far as the spies have whispered, your father has yet to deny you entrance into his house."

He lowers his eyes from the good general's. Why General Washington did this to him was beyond him. He always managed to make him realize his errors, and even though to him there was a definite right and wrong, there wasn't to General Washington. He nods, out of respect, and knows he will go and visit his father.

"Is the hospital even open at this hour?"

"I don't know, but I will walk you there."

He looks at him skeptically, because the Redcoats are _dying_ to kill Washington.

"You believe in the power of family, then."

A wry smile pulls at the good general's lips.

"Indeed. To a fault, some would say."

"You are quite verbose tonight, General."

"I may have had some drink with the others at the tavern, but your predicament has been bothering me for a while now."

"You are not what I expected from a general."

"What did you think? I would be like the ones from overseas? They are trained to lead, my boy. I am a simple man, and I will die a simple man."

Ratohnhaké:ton smiles softly.

"Very well."

He nods to the door, and General Washington nods, following him out. And as it turns out, the hospital _is _still open, and he _is _still permitted to see his father, and the look the good general sends him lets him know he _knew_ it was still open. The frown he gives him earns him a laugh. He paces into the room, and the reaction is immediate. His father's eyes open; Washington leaves him, and he's left standing there, fighting the bubbling rage inside him.

"Desmond?"

His father looks horrible, he thinks, as he pulls a chair over and sits beside him, stubbornly staring at his father's feet as he clasps his hands together between his legs.

"I'm surprised you came."

"I'm surprised, too, but I couldn't ignore what General Washington told me to do. He's a good man."

"General… Washington?"

He nods, still refusing to look at his father.

"Yeah, he's a good friend of mine."

"But…"

He laughs, harshly, and looks at his father. There's something satisfying about seeing his father stricken to a hospital bed like this. He must have done more damage than he realized.

"You're a real jackass, you know that? You have no idea what the fuck happened when I came back to the assassins, do you? I bet you kept up-to-date with what happen to _Clay,_ didn't you?"

There's silence, and he thinks he sees something akin to regret on his father's face. It's probably just the drugs in his system fucking with the man. Desmond will believe it when he sees it _outside_ of the hospital. He leans back in the chair, watching as his father stares at the far wall. Silence reigns for a long time before he hears his father sigh.

"I've really messed this up."

"Yeah, I'll say."

"Do you really feel as if Clay—"

"Just leave Clay out of this right now. The last thing he needs is an invite to take over."

He sees Ratohnhaké:ton sitting across the bed from him with Altair, and Ezio is at the foot of his father's bed.

"What do you mean, 'take over'?"

"I've been having problems with the Bleeding Effect, and Clay is trying to drive me crazy."

"Why?"

"Why? I don't know. Malice at the fact that he was just a sacrificial lamb? Outrage at going batshit _psycho?_"

His father is silent for a moment before his face screws up and he hears in a harsh whisper, "I'm sorry."

"Of course you are," he says as he snorts.

"I don't believe him," Altair murmurs.

"I would," Ratohnhaké:ton says. "General Washington wouldn't have brought us here otherwise."

"Tell me…" he hears his father say, then pauses before he meets his gaze. "Let me hear from your lips what happened."

He's more than happy to dish out the truth of what happened to him, and as he speaks, he can see his father waking up slowly, that regret dissolving into that emotionless mask again. He gets slightly more infuriated as he speaks that his father is showing even less emotion than before but he spares him no detail, telling him about everything. Altair takes his turn talking, and Ezio speaks for a long time, and even Ratohnhaké:ton speaks. When Ratohnhaké:ton talks, he finds it interesting to know he introduces himself as Connor, and the internal peace he feels is stronger than ever.

Then, then things get bad.

He feels a chill seep into his skin, and he can see the other three look around, alarmed. He switches on the Eagle Vision. The room is slowly turning purple, glowing eerily as the puzzles he once solved on Abstergo's walls creep through. It's slowly encroaching. It's coming out of the corners quickly, seeping and spreading and coming toward them like a virus spreading.

"Desmond, is he coming?" he hears Ezio saying.

"Yeah," he growls, "yeah. He's coming."

He's on defensive as the purple comes racing closer to him, surrounding his feet. He jerks when he hears a strangled snarl from Ratohnhaké:ton, and the man is being strangled by the purple. He dies, crushed by the purple waves, and Desmond jumps when he sees the purple jump at him. Ezio goes with a screech and a struggle. He hisses, and the purple got a hold of him when he looked at his ancestor. When he sees Altair being destroyed, he blacks out.

When he comes back, he's sitting on the bed, leaning across his father's legs, and he can feel the last of Clay disappearing as that smirk on his face vanishes. His father looks mildly surprised, watching him carefully. He frowns and moves back to his seat.

"What did he say to you?"

His father meets his gaze. "Nothing of any concern for you."

He scowls, rising. "This is why I've given up on ever getting closer with you. You're always cold and secretive, even though I do your work for you, even though I _pull_ this Goddamn Order forward, and all you do is play, 'Desmond's-Not-Good-Enough!' Are you seriously gonna keep this game up? Just fucking—you know what? Never mind. I don't care enough about this. I'm just gonna check myself into a loony bin and let the once-dead ancestors fucking take over my brain. It'd certainly be a better life than this one."

He walks to the door, and then his father speaks.

"What about your child?"

He pauses, thinking. He can't just let Rebecca raise the child. He's the father. He frowns, lowering his head.

"I'll tell her to get it aborted. There's no way _you're_ coming near it, and if I'm not even supported by anyone other than the men in my head, there's no way I'm letting—"

"What about the children you teach, or the lives you've touched?"

He swallows. That makes him pause. He knows the kids love him, and he knows that they would be severely upset if he was taken away. They even came to fetch him when he was late, instead of goofing off. That would be entirely selfish on his part. He really has no reason to turn himself in. He needs to keep fighting, he supposes, if not for himself, then for the children he's started fighting for, for the Order that keeps coming back into his life no matter how hard he tries to get rid of it. He's gotta keep fighting for the same reasons his ancestors kept fighting. He does have his family, right under his nose, and he's just going to have to accept that he will never have his father's appreciation, that he will never be completely and wholly accepted by the one man he's always wanted in his life, but he's got enough stuff otherwise that he can make his own family now.

He jerks when he feels Ezio appear in front of him, and he starts to look, only to feel him kissing his forehead.

"The Order has always been our family," Altair says from his right.

"The Order will always be our family," Ezio murmurs, placing his hand on his shoulder.

"And we will always be the instigators of change," Ratohnhaké:ton says from his other side.

Desmond sighs, running a hand through his hair. "All right. I won't. I'll keep fighting."

"It sounds like you've resolved your problems," his father rasps.

He looks over his shoulder, meeting his father's gaze. "Not yet. I still have to figure out something with Sixteen. And I still have to come to terms about you not giving a shit."

The man is silent for a moment, and Desmond takes the opportunity to let his shoulders sag. He's so tired of fighting, and all he wants is for something to go right, for something to be okay, and he's just done.

"Could you use the Animus to get rid of Clay?"

He feels the other three vanish, and he looks at the ceiling. "Not really."

"Damn skippy," he hears purred, and he looks to see Clay smirked at him, leaning against the table by his father's bedside. "I'm like that Pablo Escobar—you're gonna have to riddle me with bullets until I decide to kill myself."

"Besides," Desmond murmurs, glancing Clay, "I don't think those drugs they pumped me with before would kill him."

His father frowns. "Then keep constant vigilance, Desmond. He's dangerous."

Desmond snorts. "Now you decide to tell me?"

His father stares at him, and Clay laughs. Desmond rolls his eyes.

"Whatever. I'm going back. I've got a shit ton of paperwork tomorrow and training the kids, and I only have three hours of sleep left."

He steps out, and as the door swings shut, he hears his father calling for him. He doesn't know why he does it, but he opens the door once more to look in. His father's brow is furrowed, and he swears the man looks more than slightly worried, perhaps even upset. He raises an eyebrow.

"Desmond, my last advice may have been horrible, but take this to heart, something I learned the hard way: sometimes, the best way to kill something is to ignore its growth."

He frowns, confused, and he gives his father a look that he hopes conveys the feeling he thinks his father is stupid. He says thanks regardless and walks back to the Order, thinking about his father's words. Ezio was walking in front of him, walking backward, and Ratohnhaké:ton and Altair walk on either side. He paces back into his room, stripping as he climbs into bed after Lucy stirs at his entrance to the room. He crawls in beside her before he feels—more than sees—Rebecca coming over and lying beside him. When Shaun moves in on Lucy to share warmth, he's slings an arm over Rebecca's side and smiles as he spreads a hand over her stomach. He can hear her chuckle.

"Altair warned me of this."

"Huh?"

She places her hand over his. "That you might get touchy."

"You talked to him?"

"He was the one who fucked me. You think I didn't know?"

He is quiet, but he can't keep his hand from rubbing her belly gently.

"He told me he thought that you would be more like him after everything you've been through, and that you would get really excited about having a kid, and that you might get really touchy—not that I mind."

He can _hear_ the grin in her voice. Still, he keeps rubbing her belly as she falls silent, and he thinks about how there's a life growing inside of her. It was _him_ that helped create it, and soon enough, her stomach is going to start growing. There's a life that's growing inside her, a baby that he'll eventually hold, that he'll eventually spoil rotten. He inhales deeply, feeling his blood stir. He needs to get a hold of himself.

"He was right, you know. He said that you would be even more excited than him, 'cause you aren't gonna be afraid to show how excited you are."

"What happened, exactly, during that time?"

"Well, it wasn't until _after_ we were done that he actually told me, and I was more than a little mad 'cause I had thought that it was you—but then he started talking about you."

"Why?"

"He was worried. He talked about some sort of 'cold wind' that seemed to block your mind, and how he wanted to warn me of what was going on and asked me just to be patient, but I already knew all that from when we went into hiding."

She doesn't know, at least, he muses, she doesn't know _everything._

"So we talked for a bit, and then he went 'poof,' and you came back."

Interesting way to put it, but he supposes that all's well that ends well. He pulls her close and inhales deeply. He's going to be a father. He's going to have his own child to love and adore, to train as an assassin or support as an astronaut, and he'll be able to spoil it with toys and affection.

"Thanks, Rebecca."

He can feel Altair smile in his mind, and Ezio chuckle softly.

"It's no problem, Des. Just don't go skippin' town without me," she says cheekily.

And in that moment, everything becomes clear for him. He's going to fight. He'll fight until his dying breath to keep himself from going crazy, and he _won't _let Clay control him. He's going to fight so that he can watch his kid have grand-children because everything is going to turn out okay.

_Everything_.

No matter how hard the fight, things will be okay because he's an assassin, and the assassins always win, no matter how long it takes or how hard the war is.

He's going to win.

_And_ _everything will be okay._

That night, he has the most infuriating dreams, none of which he remembers as he wakes and shoots into a sitting position with a gasping realization that his father meant the way to kill Clay is to _ignore _him. And when he hears that laugh he loves so much, he grits his teeth. He'll have to do this—no matter how hard it gets.

Of course, it helps that Rebecca woke with his movement.


	7. Chapter 7

"Des?"

He looks at her, and he can feel Clay leave.

"I figured it out."

And it all makes sense, too, because of course the best way to kill a pest is to let it kill itself. Ignore a crying child and walk away, and the kid will stop because he's not getting attention.

"What did you figure out?"

He can feel a grin splitting his lips. "How to get rid of Clay."

"So you've got a plan," he hears Altair say.

"Wait, what about Clay?" he hears Rebecca say, and he watches her roll over, her eyebrows scrunched together and her body language saying she's wide awake now.

He nods. "Yeah. I can do this."

He explains to her about Clay, and then again when Lucy and Shaun wake up, and all of them look remarkably concerned, more so than he was hoping for and perhaps one of the reasons he was unconsciously trying to hide as much as he could from them. He tells them that he'll have to learn to ignore Clay, but it's going to be hard because the other three—Altair, Ezio, and Ratohnhaké:ton—are blocked when Clay comes to the forefront.

"Then… perhaps imagine that they are there," Shaun murmurs, looking at him.

Desmond purses his lips. "Easier said than done. Clay can be really hard to ignore."

"Well then," Rebecca says, grinning like a devil, "looks like we'll just have to pester you."

"Why didn't you tell us earlier that you were having problems with Cl—_Sixteen_," he heard Lucy catch and correct herself.

Perhaps he should stop acknowledging Clay as Clay, and as Sixteen instead. Nevertheless, he shrugs.

"I don't know. Same reason I didn't tell you about how bad the bleeding was getting before?"

There's a heavy silence between them for just a moment, and when he notices how upset Lucy looks, he smiles gently and takes her hand.

"Hey, everything's gonna be okay."

"Says the man who's fought and lost," Shaun hisses.

He grins like a shit. "I've got more motivation to win this time."

"Of course you do," Rebecca says, leaning back on her hands and smirking at the fact that his eyes are drawn to her stomach. "There's no losing now, Des!"

He looks back up to her eyes and smiles. "No. Absolutely not."

"So does this give me permission to bark orders at you and make you do errands in the dead of night for me?"

He laughs. "Yeah. I guess."

"Does that mean that I get to laugh at you if you get sympathy pains?"

He grins. "I suppose so."

She gives him a victorious smirk, and he just rolls his eyes.

"Desmond."

He turns to see Altair waiting by the door. His lips twitch, and he jerks when he points to the door. Oh, yeah, he has to get to the kids. Of course, if he could just stay here a while longer, he'd be happy. With a soft grunt, he swings his legs over the edge of their bed and pops up.

"Wait… where are you going?" Lucy asks as he strips.

He doesn't miss the regret in her eyes as she sees the nasty scars on his arms and legs from before with his brief hospitalization.

"I gotta get to the first class."

He changes into his training outfit and stretches briefly.

"My kids'll never let it down if I miss it—no matter how inviting our bed looks."

"Have you ever though perhaps you're doing too much, Desmond?" Shaun asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, well, the kids are a good distraction."

"I'll be an even better one," Rebecca says, a sultry tone to her voice, and Desmond can't help but grin.

He's bids farewell after brushing his teeth and washing his face, almost lured back onto the bed with the other three when Rebecca pulls him in for a kiss, and when his first thirty-minute break is there, he notices that Rebecca is standing at the edge of the mats, arms crossed and grinning as she waits for him. He paces over, resisting the urge to flick on his Eagle Vision. This is going to be much harder than he thought.

"Hey. You know, I got to thinking."

"Yeah?"

"You know how much energy I have?"

"Yeah?"

"And you know how much energy you have?"

"Yeah?"

"Imagine how hyperactive our kid's gonna be."

He blinks, and he can see Clay waiting by the door to the gym but focuses solely on Rebecca. He laughs.

"You mean, I'll have finally met my match?"

She grins. "Yeah."

"So, have you been put down for time off yet?"

"Naw, we've already hit a slow period now that Abstergo's down, and we're taking it over. I mean, it's not like coding is particularly stressing."

He chuckles, inviting her onto the mats. "So, are you planning on staying in shape at all?"

"I don't know if I could," she responds, sitting in front of him when he plops on the mats. She grins and scratches her chin, shrugging nonchalantly as she looks to the ceiling. "Of course, I heard we have the world's greatest instructor here, so I'm sure it won't take too long to get me back on par."

He laughs, leaning back on his hands. "Oh, really? The world's greatest instructor?"

"Or, at least, according to the herd of thundering kids that came running off the mats."

"Ah, well, those kids are pretty reliable, you know."

"So I've heard," she says, giving him a doubtful look just barely hiding a teasing smirk.

He grins, and he tries to bring out Ezio, because Ezio is the strongest, and if he can do that, then he's on his way to victory.

"Why do you have such long training sessions, anyway? Wouldn't two hours be enough?"

He blinks.

"Are you going to _keep_ the three-hour sessions once the baby is born? I mean: I know you get Saturday and Sunday off from _training_, even if you spend them working, but…"

He blinks again, and he watches as she frowns.

"'Cause I—"

"I can put in the order now, if you want, to decrease the hours."

She looks surprised in just the slightest, but shakes her head, laughing. "Not now. Not when you need distraction the most, yeah? I meant: once all this shit is over, and we've got a pink bundle of joy keeping us up all night."

He laughs. "I'm not so sure I could physically keep those hours once the baby gets here."

She grins. "Cool. Just checking."

"Nah, don't worry about it. I'll start taking time off."

He's relieved when he sees Ezio behind her, smiling softly as he watches them. He sees Rebecca look over her shoulder.

"Whozzit?"

"Ezio," he murmurs, looking back at her. "Just a good reassurance everything is okay for now."

She nods slowly, pursing her lips. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

He smiles at her, and a silence falls over them. He manages to remain still and quiet for a moment, then he can feel his fingers twitch. He realizes he probably has a lot of paperwork left to finish, and he doesn't quite know how long it will take, since he doesn't know how much of William's work he's going to have to do. He sighs and looks at her. She gives him a questioning look.

"I think I'm gonna head to my office. With William out of commission for a while, there's even more that needs to get done."

She nods. "Want me to come with?"

"I'm not going to say no to the company."

And as it turns out, Rebecca is a better distraction than he thought. He finds himself beginning to crave her company as the days pass, and Clay begins to figure out that he's being ignored. What started out as the man just waiting to be acknowledged, resisting the urge to turn on Eagle Vision, becomes much worse, and soon, he's trying to learn to "see" through Clay when he appears standing in front of him. Rebecca teases Desmond and talks with him while he's doing paperwork, while the man he's trying to ignore paces back and forth, thinking of ways to get attention, and even, occasionally, she decides to talk to one of the other three men, and when Desmond comes back, the other man is always chuckling quietly. He finds her staying up with him until his inhuman hours of the morning, snacking from a bag of potato chips or munching on an apple, smacking her lips until he has to stop and glare at her because she's being _so damn loud._ And that helps, too, as Clay begins to get more annoying. Of course, it helps that every time the crazy man slams his hands on his desk, he hears Rebecca's chewing getting unbearably loud, and he has to sigh, frustrated, and look in her direction, glaring at her. She just gives him a shit-eating grin, and he briefly wonders how she knows what's going on, but he doesn't question it, unwilling to give any acknowledgement to him.

Occasionally, she brings in a laptop, working on some project as she kicks her feet up on his desk regardless of what he's doing. She has the courtesy to at least keep her feet clean, and what really surprises him is that as Clay begins _talking_ to get his attention, _she_ begins playing music. Not necessarily music he enjoys, but music that drowns out whatever Clay is saying. Sometimes, it's heavy metal; other times, it's classic rock, and it ranges everywhere from Disturbed to Enya to Lady Gaga or whatever she decides to listen to at that moment. There's this heavy sense of needing to thank her, for everything she's done for him—and will do for him—and it gets worse as he begins to realize just how much he missed company his own age, and he begins to find himself valuing her as _her_ instead of _the baby carrier_.

It turns out the work he had taken from his father before was just the tip of the iceberg. The man was in charge of scheduling all the missions from here to China, checking in and filing all the mission reports, with the compiling done at each individual base. And damn, there's a lot of shit in China, and they're still fighting to take it back, even with Russia and most of Europe assassin-aligned. And Rebecca knows better than to even think of Africa. He wonders how his father gets it all done, then realizes he's for the most part balancing three jobs, and still getting an hour or two of sleep every night, including weekends, and he'll just have to bunker down and do it because it was his fault that his father is in the hospital now.

After a few weeks, on Sunday, when all the kids are still in their beds and reveling in the lack of training for the weekend, he finds himself donning make-up, colored contacts even though he doesn't need them, and a suit, slipping out of the building and into the streets of Manhattan before the sun has risen. As the streets begin to fill, he knows that his trainee is out there, finding him. The boy successfully hid from him on Saturday, and he has been the only one who's thoroughly stumped him so far. At eight pm, he's in his favorite bar, the one he used to work at, snacking on some sort of salad as he knocks back a drink—

Which lands him in the bathroom, vomiting his guts out as he curses the cook for spoiled food. When he hears a laugh behind him, he turns to see a boy leaning against the stall door, which he doesn't remember opening. The boy has his hands on his hips, dressed in a cap with blonde hair and sportsy clothes. He remembers noticing him in the corner of his eye, getting that gut feeling that had developed since he couldn't flick on the Eagle Vision just in case, and deciding he needs to keep an eye on him.

"I win, Master."

He blinks, hurls, then realizes that it's his student, RichardManchez, the Spanish kid he had placed his whole faith in in becoming an assassin. He laughs, despite his upset stomach, and shakes his head.

"Way to go, Richard. What the hell did you get me with?"

"Some sort of mushroom. I've been watching you for _months_, and I started researching you when I realized you weren't leaving the compound with all your paperwork. I tried to find something I could make you sick with that could be slipped into your food. Then I changed the way I looked and just… waited here for you all day. I knew I couldn't find you while you were on the move, so I waited you out, thanks to some people here who remembered you from when you worked here."

He shakes his head. This child is the only one who's used a poison to get him in his three years of teaching, and he knows there's more to come, but he can't help but grin.

"And what happens if you had guessed wrong with the poison and killed me?"

Richard looks a little guilty before laughing nervously. "Uh… I guess I really did win?"

He can't help but laugh and congratulate him, and he knows he's got an assassin on his hands that's ready to take the leap.

It's somewhere near the end of the second month of Rebecca's proclaimed pregnancy, a week after Richard's victory, and it's eleven at night as he finishes up his paperwork. She's still wired, and he's distracted, watching her jive in her seat as she works on some coding project. He remembers her telling him that she's always more productive in the early morning hours, and he has seen her doze off once or twice before jerking awake and working furiously for a few minutes before she slows and starts jiving again. Come to think of it, she had done that a few times back at Monteriggioni.

"Why?"

She pauses, turns down the music, and looks at him. "Huh?"

"Why did you volunteer to have the baby?"

"Cause I wanted one. That so bad? I mean," she grins, "having a kid would be a cool new adventure, you know? Like, now that we can 'settle down,' I wanna have a kid."

"But surely that's not the only reason. I mean, you could have bagged any guy you wanted."

She blinks for a moment before she leans back. "I dunno—you're loyal; you're hot; you'll help me with the baby. Why _shouldn't_ I have gone after you? I mean… I _guess_ Lucy would have eventually wanted a child, but I just… I don't really know, Des. I just got this feeling, you know? Not a 'My biological clock is ticking, and I want babies _now_' feeling, but a 'shit's gonna hit the ceiling fan soon, and there's gotta be something to keep us together' feeling."

He's watching her closely as she says that, and he can't help but wonder if it's the same feeling she gets that clues her into when things are getting hard. Then he can't help but wonder why _she_ feels it, if _Lucy_ was the one who knew crazyman better.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, I don't think you notice it, and I don't think I really ever acknowledged it before… but you sometimes… I don't know. Your aura changes? I mean, I guess that would be the best way to put it."

Color him lost.

"So I try to do something to help you out. Like… playing music, because music always helps me relax, and it's been working with you. So, like, I got this super strong… _feeling_, I guess, and sure, it took a while for me to be like, 'Oh, hai! Let's have babies!', but I knew that something was wrong, you know? I just got this feeling that things were going to get_ a lot_ worse. And it was right."

He blinks, then stares at her for a moment. Just when she begins to frown, he grins like a shit. "You're crazy."

She pauses, then laughs, and he's dodging a pen from her hand as he starts laughing. It's eleven at night—he's tired of working since his last class, and everything seems to be much funnier now. Part of him is glad it's Friday, and he's thinking that he's going to stop working on everything for the day since classes are done and he has no testing today for graduates. He grins.

"Let's go get something to eat, and then I'll crash."

She gives him a skeptical look. "You sure you up to it?"

He nods. "I could stand to get out of this place. I haven't done much outside since I passed Richard Manchez last week for graduation."

She laughs. "You need to get out, then. Maybe that's why he found you. You're slacking on your game 'cause you're stuck in here all the time."

He snorts, and he can hear Ezio laugh.

"Of course you aren't slacking," the man murmurs as he starts shutting down the computer and getting ready to leave. "As a matter of fact, your student even conceded defeat while you were out and about. He _still_ had to wait for you."

He chuckles, thanking Ezio for the reassurance as he rises and stretches, groaning softly. His muscles are sore, and he feels stiff.

"So, where should we go to eat?" Rebecca chirps.

"Anything you feel like?"

"How about… barbeque?"

He purses his lips, frowning as he thinks.

"There was some Korean place called 'Don Bogam BBQ and Wine Bar' between 5th and Madison. I remember someone recommending it."

"Are you sure? That food will probably be spicy."

She grins. "Of course I'm sure."

"And the baby?"

"He'll love it too."

He blinks, then laughs as he locks his office door, ignoring as a hand slams onto the door to keep him from closing it. He pulls it shut, locks it, and wraps his arm around Rebecca, smiling.

"All right, then. Korean barbeque it is. Should we invite Lucy and Shaun?"

"They'd probably like it. I'll give them a call."

He waits as she does, shifting feet. "Should I call Shaun?"

"Naw," she says, closing her cell phone. "They'll meet us there."

He grins, loving that it only took a few seconds for her to complete her call with Lucy, and even less time to get him out on the streets in the still-bustling city. He could feel himself relax as the people surrounded him, and by the time they arrived at the restaurant, he was eager to try this food. Rebecca had been chattering excitedly about how she had friends who had been here and recommended it, and how she had had a hankering for it, and how her mother had loved to eat spicy foods before she had been born, and how spicy foods had been a part of her childhood. When he meets Lucy and Shaun at the door to the restaurant, he can't help but pause. They both looks apprehensive, perhaps a bit worried, and he frowns when he notices the person standing with them.

His father was with them, still looking rather haggard, but significantly better. He's still got a cast on his arm, and there's a scar peeking out from under the cast, looking ugly and wicked, but that's okay by his standards because it was well-earned. He's leaning relatively heavily on a cane with his other hand. Desmond's pretty sure that the cane will be there permanently, but that's okay because he was getting old anyway. He looks as if he's been through hell in the past weeks, and he probably has.

"You're out."

His father blinks first, then nods slowly. Desmond's pleased to see the uncomfortable shift backward and the cautious look directed toward him. He thinks his father has finally gotten the hint he's no longer just some kid on the Farm, and that he _should_ be respected, if not feared, because he's become the monster his father wanted.

"Yes. Lucy was in the process of checking me out when Rebecca called."

"Bloody hell, it was horrid checking him out," Shaun hisses. "I'd forgotten just how ridiculous the medical system was here."

"Hey, it's not that bad," Desmond says, grinning.

"This is still a good country to live in," Lucy says, sighing.

Desmond smiles at her, and then he looks back at his father. He can see the tense muscles as he leans on the cane, the "Am-I-Safe-This-Close?" look as he shifts back again, and he can't help but get a sort of unbridled pleasure. Even if it's just fear, or mistrust, he's glad to know that he's finally driven the point home to his father that, yes, he's better than he ever imagined him to be, and no, there was nothing to get in his way now.

"You've been in there for almost a month and a half now."

His father shakes his head. "I had severe internal bleeding. It's not as easy for an old man to heal as a younger man."

He snorts, looking at the skies and determined not to let it bother him. Not while he's enjoying a night out with Rebecca after working his brains and eyeballs until they felt about ready to melt out of his skull. He ignores his father's discomfort, ignores the sound of that laughter he knows so well as a chilling feeling spreads across his skin, and he chooses to close his eyes.

"Yeah, I know how hard it can be to heal when you're old."

There's silence, and he can feel Ezio clamping a hand on his shoulder, Altair materializing behind him, and he inhales deeply. He can't tell him how many times it's taken him weeks to heal from something in the Animus.

"Let's go in, yeah? I'm starving!" Rebecca says, suddenly dissolving the atmosphere and leading them in, and he can't help but grin as he's pulled in.

"I was about to suggest that," Shaun responds. "I imagined we came here to eat, not talk like gossiping women."

Desmond snorts, and as they enter the restaurant, he can't help but be slightly in awe. It looks like an upscale Japanese place of sorts meant to relax at, with the low tables that you sit on the floor in front of. There's regular chairs and tables just off to the side, and he feels as if he could relax here. When he sees the other people walking about, he can only hope that his clothes don't look to casual, the pants tucked into his boots with his white hooded robe that he forgot to take off because it's so comfortable.

They go for the strange sort of seat, with a hole for his legs and the table at floor level, and he can't help but end up sitting cross-legged so that he doesn't have to deal with it. He looks over the menu with Rebecca, completely content to ignore his father with his newfound ignoring skills. Lucy and Shaun are in good moods, though, and even though they check on William occasionally to see how he's doing, they're more than happy just to talk. Desmond realizes he's missed their company. He'll have to start hunting them down more, or at least spending more time with them. They eventually order several dishes and several kinds of alcohol, and by the time midnight rolls around, he's got a pleasant buzz in his system as he grins like a fool, and his father is even more inebriated than he is.

"You know, I'm glad you're back, William. I was getting sick of doing your work for you," he says, holding another cup of sake in his hand. "Christ. Between the paperwork I had _already_ adopted from you and the other leaders just to get this place moving, the last thing I needed was to deal with the missions coming in themselves. That takes forever!"

His father snorts, amused. "They do. Getting those missions in for all over the work takes a ton of time."

"It's hard—and that doesn't even include the tedious parts of it!"

William shook his head. "You should have seen it _before_ Abstergo fell. It was ridiculous."

"You should consider yourselves lucky enough that we're organized enough now we _can_ have that paperwork," Shaun says, jumping right into the conversation.

"Lucky? You do it, then," Desmond retorts.

"I would. It's nice to be able to track our expenses and where our assassins are. I would be grateful we have the capabilities to run efficiently, instead of like a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off."

"Still," William murmurs, "the paperwork is hell."

"I'd toast to that. Christ, I've had to ask Rebecca to give up her seat and take mine sometimes just so I'd have another place to set things! I'm surprised you just haven't given the orders to have us systematically wipe out the people in Africa with all its turmoil!"

William finishes his glass of sake. "It's not that simple, son. We can't—"

"I was kidding," Desmond deadpans, rubbing a hand over his face.

"And in thinking of which, how are you doing, Rebecca?"

Rebecca turns from her conversation with Lucy, grinning. "I'm doing just fine. Can't wait until the mood swings _really _kick in, and I start bossing Desmond around like a dog."

Desmond sticks his tongue out at her, and she laughs, snatching the bottle of sake away from him.

"I don't think you need any more if you have to keep your mental defenses up, Des."

He frowns, resting his chin in his hand but realizing she's right.

"Course, it took a lot for you to get drunk in the first place."

William snorts again. "'M not surprised, to be honest. We've always had a high tolerance for alcohol."

Desmond hears Altair agree to that somewhere behind him, and Ezio chuckle, murmuring his tolerance was self-made. He nods, his eyes flicking back to his father before back to Rebecca.

"Have you two gotten married yet?"

There's a pause, and then Desmond and Rebecca laugh.

"We haven't even thought about it, William," she says.

"You know: it's not going to look good if your child's birth certificate has two different last names on it."

"Then how about we just buy the marriage license and have a ceremony another day?" he suggests.

"Fair enough, but I figured I'd at least ask. Do you think you're ready to marry?"

"You certainly weren't, and here I am! I can't do any worse than you," Desmond says with a smile, and as if karma was looking out for him in his inebriated state, the second round of food gets there.

His father gets distracted by the food, and he and Rebecca touch chopsticks together in imitation of a toast, and they're all digging in. There's not much talking now, save the occasional request for something or someone protesting having their food stolen. By the time one am rolls around, he's leaning back, full and merry and in an extremely forgiving mood. They pay their bill, and he walks out, chatting away with his father about what to do in Africa and reaching no real conclusion as they part to go to bed. Rebecca plops on the bed and spends a bit complaining about bloating, and Desmond can see her stomach is bigger because of it, as Shaun changes into bedclothes and he strips to his boxers. Lucy is sitting by her side, joking with her about the pregnancy and how they'll have to go shopping for better clothes. Rebecca hisses, talking about how she wouldn't be caught dead in maternity crap. It's with a hesitant smile he walks over, crouching in front of Rebecca as she whines, and kisses her briefly, thanking her again for having the baby for him. It seems to be enough to placate her for now, especially when he offers to get her something to help, and even come with to carry the shopping bags. As he curls up, sandwiched between Rebecca and Lucy, he decides that tonight was good.


	8. Chapter 8

And when he wakes up, he had his nose pressed against Rebecca's hair, and his whole mind is groggy with much-needed sleep. He feels Rebecca twitch in his arms, and he grunts. In the briefest flight of passing dreams, he realizes he hasn't seen Clay in a while. He hums and dismisses the thought, pulling Rebecca closer and perfectly content to just remain there. She's still asleep, and he doesn't mind, his own eyes still closed as he revels in the early morning sleepiness.

And when Rebecca _does_ wake up, she's warm and snuggled in, and all kinds of wonderful, or, at least, that's what his brain is telling him as she exhales softly and stirs. He hums quietly, and she stretches in his arms, yawning. He grunts, not entirely willing to let go of her yet, until he hears her chuckle.

"You're really warm, Des."

He opens his eyes and meets her gaze as she looks over her shoulder at him. He quirks an eyebrow, and she leans in to kiss him. He kisses her willingly, and when she pulls back, he finds himself following her for another. She chuckles, sits up, and rests her head in her hands.

"Just a sec, Des. I don't feel too hot."

He sits up, frowning, as she hugs her stomach gently.

"Fuck. I feel like I'm gonna hurl."

He gets up and fetches the small trashcan from the room.

"Maybe it's morning sickness. My mother said she got it around six weeks into the pregnancy. We'd be hitting passed that mark, wouldn't we? We're at what, the beginning of eight?"

"You called your mom?" he murmurs, crouching beside her and placing a hand on her leg.

"Yeah," she chuckles. "I keep in touch with her. I told her all about you and my decision to have a kid, and she started going on and on about her pregnancy with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I kicked a lot, apparently."

He rubs her leg, at a loss for what to do.

"Do we have any ginger or soda crackers?" she mumbles. "I could really use those right about now."

"I can check. Do you want me to go buy you some if we don't?"

He rises, fetching his clothes and tugging them on, forgoing the robes for today because he doesn't need them. Instead, he grabs his old hoodie at the back of his closet and tugs it on, stuffing his wallet into his jeans pocket.

"Yeah. My mother did the same. I'm allowed to take one gram for four days, doc and mom says."

He quirks an eyebrow. An odd prescription, but he's more willing to trust a woman who's gone through pregnancy once and a doctor. He rises, walking to the door.

"All right. I'll see if we have some soda crackers."

"And Des?"

He looks over his shoulder, and she grins.

"I've got a number in my phone for an obstetrician. Can you hand it to me?"

He blinks. "Where is it?"

"It's…" she point to the wall on the far side of the room. "There. Charging."

He nods, fetches the phone, and hands it to her. "You do that while I was working?"

She nods. "Yeah. The doc seemed pretty mad until I told her that you'd be more free once your 'business' settled down and got back on track."

He chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. "Well, it's been almost a year since we finished, so we should be able to stop with so much paperwork soon. My load had slowed down until I took up William's, too."

"You're always complaining about paperwork, though," she says, giving him a suspicious look, and he scratches the back of his head.

"Heh, I make it sound like more than it really is. It _feels_ like more than it is."

Rebecca's giving him a shit-eating grin. "You are such a liar! Go on! Get out of here, slave, and fetch me my soda crackers!"

He snorts, but bows, and says, "Anything for you, my queen."

"Damn straight. Now go."

He snorts and walks out, into the kitchens, and fetches her soda crackers before jogging back. She is lying back in the bed, her arm over her eyes, and he can't help but frown. He walks over and crouches.

"Rebecca?"

"Fuck, I feel like crap. You got those crackers?"

He nods, placing them in her other hand. She grunts, opening them without opening her eyes and nibbling on one.

"You got those ginger pills?"

"Not yet. I'm gonna head out now. Do you want me to send in Lucy?"

She grunt, and he takes it as a yes. It takes him a bit to track Lucy down, speaking with William in the front foyer. He walks over, making his footfall loud enough to be heard, and she looks over her shoulder.

"Desmond, you're awake?"

He nods. "I'm going to get ginger pills for Rebecca. She wants you."

Lucy looks concerned. "Why?"

"She's not feeling good."

Lucy looks at William and dismisses herself, rushing off, and Desmond sighs as William chuckles quietly, shifting to put distance between them.

"What's up, old man?"

"Morning sickness. I remember that."

His father adjusts on the couch to look at him, coming no closer, but moving no farther away. Desmond quirks an eyebrow and frowns at the almost-amused look his father has.

"Really? Did you hide behind your paperwork?"

"I didn't hide _enough_. When she got going, no amount of paperwork was enough to hide behind."

Desmond wants to chuckle, but he couldn't. Not as he balances on one leg, the other foot pressed against his inner thigh as he crosses his arms. He's still kinda mad, and part of him wants to just reconcile with his father and be done, but there still one more thing pressing on his mind aside from getting the ginger pills.

"Let me guess, though: I was a mistake on your account, even if you kept me just to pass on your line?"

There's silence, and Desmond takes it as the truth. He's not sure why he cares, but he takes a step away to give his father more room. His father has looked away, back to the cane in his hand and the scars on his arms.

"I did a lot of the right things for the wrong reasons when I married."

Desmond snorts. "I'm sure. Look. I gotta scram."

"It's best not to keep a pregnant woman waiting," his father murmurs, and Desmond can swear he feels his father watching him as he exits the hideout.

As he blends into the crowds on the streets of Manhattan, he exhales gently. There's life all around him; the voices are blessedly silent, and he's got a baby on the way. Of course, in thinking about the voices, he also realizes that he hasn't heard from Clay—or seen him—and he banishes the thought before he can congratulate himself, because there's still no leeway until he knows for certain. He hurries to grocery store and heads straight to the spices. He knows better than to keep Rebecca waiting, if not for just making sure she feels better, then to stave off her wrath later.

"You won't find it. Not here."

He ignores the advice only on account of the familiar voice saying it. He can see him just out of the corner of his eye, scowling with his arms crossed. Nevertheless, he keeps searching despite the advice he knows is true, eventually rising, folding his arms, and wondering if powdered ginger would work just as well. Perhaps he could find a way to make ginger tea.

"You'll find it in the tea shop we passed."

He ignores it, looking at the bottle and scratching his chin. He wonders again if it would be possible to make tea from a powder.

"Can I help you?"

He looks and asks the woman in the uniform about making tea. She laughs and sends him down toward the tea shop. Clay keeps appearing in front of him, even as he walks in and starts looking for ginger tea. When he finally finds a box, he can see Ezio standing beside him, leaning in close to look at it. It's faint, and hardly there, but he's smirking as he sees him nod before vanishing. He buys the tea and heads out, hurrying back to the hideout and making her some before he enters the room.

She's sitting there, the trashcan between her legs as Lucy rubs her back and Shaun has a tray of soda crackers and water there, just in case. Rebecca looks when he opens the door, and he smiles gently.

"Hey, I got you the ginger tea, is that okay?"

She nods, _looking_ like she's about to hurl. "Yeah. Just… give it here."

He sits at her feet, on the other side of the trash can, as she sips it slowly.

"You're right in projectile vomit's way," Shaun says.

"I know," he responds, looking at the man. "But I don't want to leave her. She looks like she feels terrible."

Rebecca chuckles quietly before groaning. "No, I'll be okay. Go chill with the kids or something."

"Rebecca…"

She managed to make it through the tea slowly, even as he told her funny stories about the kids he taught. It was nice to see her grin or chuckle softly instead of hunched over the trash can. They pass several hours before she looks at him with a serious look on her face.

"Christ, I'm almost nine weeks pregnant, and I'm gonna have an ultrasound next week. You coming with, Des?"

He blinks. An ultrasound. "What… why are you having one?"

She laughs heartily, then groans and doubles over the trashcan. Lucy is laughing quietly off to the side, and Shaun rolls his eyes.

"To see the baby, Des," Rebecca mumbles, and he finds himself reaching out to run a hand through her hair before he can help himself.

And then it hits him.

"We can see it?"

She laughs quietly again. "Yeah, Des, we can see it. And it's just gonna be you, me, and the doc."

"Really?"

"Des, we're gonna see our _baby_."

He blinks, and he can't help but grin. "Yeah. We are, aren't we?"

She shoos him from the room after a little bit, sending Shaun away as well, and he's got a bounce in his step and a smile on his face.

"You're just a wee bit excited, hm?"

"Damn, Shaun," he breathes as he leads him into the foyer and plops on a couch. "I'm gonna see my _baby!_"

Shaun chuckles warmly, sitting beside him. "This is probably the cheeriest I've seen you in a long time."

He squirms, smiling. "Shaun, I'm gonna be a _dad._"

The man rolls his eyes and settles back into the couch. "I'm glad you're ex—"

"We need to talk."

And in that instant, all happiness leaves him, filling him with a cold sense of dread spreading through his veins like lard as his smile vanishes. His eyes narrow; his lips turn downward, and he looks to see Clay standing there. His heart is pounding in his chest, because this is what he's been hoping for, and he stands slowly, scowling. Then, he turns to Shaun.

"Take messages for me if someone wants me. I'll… be in my office. Let _no one_ interrupt me."

Shaun quirks an eyebrow but says nothing more as he walks off. Clay helps himself to a seat, grunting as he collapses into it and stares hard at him. The man looks disgruntled and frustrated, and as Desmond sits in his chair, he waits for him to speak.

"I'm sick of being ignored," Clay starts simply enough.

Desmond leans back in his chair, frowning. "Then we'll have to reach an agreement, now, won't we?"

"You most certainly will," he hears Ezio say, appearing in the other chair and sitting.

"Especially with a baby on the way," Ratohnhaké:ton murmurs, appearing at Desmond's shoulder.

He frowns even deeper, watching as Clay grunts at each of the other assassins, not bothering to sit up straight from his slouch.

"We've gotta set boundaries, Clay," he says, then wrinkles his nose like a bad aftertaste, and corrects himself, "_Sixteen_."

"What kind of boundaries?"

"Not the kind that you've been pushing," Altair growls, appearing and sitting on his desk.

_Sixteen_ hisses, drawing in on himself as Desmond scowls at him.

"You'll have to be more like us, and you'll get more freedom in that way," Ratohnhaké:ton says. "If that's what you're looking for."

"I would say he's just looking for attention," Ezio murmurs before snorting. "Undivided attention, but attention nonetheless."

"The kids will give him plenty of attention," Ratohnhaké:ton responds. "Don't you remember when they were asking us how many more of us there were? They love us."

"He'd have to earn his right to be with the kids," Desmond snarls. "_Especially_ since _I_ have one on the way."

Sixteen looks about ready to murder, his lips curled up in just the slightest. His fingers are digging into the arms of the chair, and he looks royally pissed off.

"So your only options are either learn to behave like the others or fuck off," Desmond growls.

Sixteen chuckles quietly, smirking, and slowly leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and press his fingers together. There's the hint of utter insanity in the completely amused and dark look he's receiving.

"Desmond, I will _never_ be like the others. _Never_. And I will _never_ be forgotten. _Never._ And I don't care if I have to strangle all three of the other men out of your head, because _you're_ going to keep me alive."

"I'll keep you alive if I choose to—even if it means treatment with the Animus."

Sixteen sits ramrod straight, his eyes wide and horrified, as if Desmond's said a bad word.

"And I'd really like to avoid using the Animus again," he murmurs, resting his chin in his hand on the arm of his chair, "but I've got too much going for me right now. So, you can either learn to live with me, under my rules, or I will systematically wipe you out from my memory using the Animus, since only a few sessions should start up the bleeding again, and I'll bleed a lot quicker now that I'm 'healed.'"

"And hardly so," Ezio murmurs, earning a chuckle from the other three men.

Sixteen's eyes narrow, and he looks less-than-pleased. Desmond can't find it in himself to care. He watches the man carefully, and he meant it that he would undergo Animus sessions if it meant that he could be freed of something dangerous to his future. He knows that Sixteen knows that he's serious. Eventually, the man snarls and leans back, growling.

"Fine. I'll behave."

Desmond quirks an eyebrow.

"So long as you're with others. But when you're alone, you're all mine to fuck with."

Desmond shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that."

Ezio murmurs, "You either learn to behave—"

"No," Desmond cuts in, leaning relaxing into his chair. "Legally? He's probably insane. He probably can't control it anymore. _But_, that doesn't excuse him. So I'll cut him a deal."

He looks at Sixteen, who was watching him cautiously.

"_You_ get help. Real help. Professional help. Dr. Harbrig is the registered shrink for the assassins, since we can't exactly go to a regular psychiatrist in fear of releasing information. We _do_ have to maintain some sort of secrecy, just in case. History repeats itself, you know."

"Okay?" Ratohnhaké:ton murmurs.

"You can come out at _my_ agreement," Desmond says, "and when we're with the shrink. As I grow to trust you, you can come out with the kids."

Sixteen still looks a little uncertain, watching him closely.

"But one wrong move and you're getting deleted for good this time."

He watches the man jerk, snort, and growl before his shoulders hunch forward, and he nestles down in the chair.

"You're being _awfully_ unfair," Sixteen hisses.

"Not in the slightest. You ruined what little trust I had in you with your crazy appearances, and then, well, you damn drove me to attack my father, which I really didn't want to do, but you know how to play with emotions too fucking well."

Sixteen gave him a shit-eating grin for just a moment before snorting. "You would have attacked your father _anyway_, when you really _couldn't _control yourself at all, when you were more like _me,_ and then you would have been put in the loony bin for good. All that anger was just _itching_ to come out."

"Doesn't matter. I'm still not inclined to trust you. You're going to have to work at it if you want any leeway at all."

Sixteen hunches in on himself again, seeming to crumble among the presence of the others. Desmond watches him, watches him think, and waits. His answer will come soon enough. He can feel the seconds ticking away slowly as all four of them wait to hear his answer. He can hear Shaun speaking to someone outside his door, too muffled to actually understand, but loud enough to hear. Finally, Sixteen snarls, already clearly defeated from being ignored for so long.

"Fine. I'll go along with it. For now."

"_Forever_," Desmond hisses. "_Or you can kiss your ass goodbye, Sixteen_."

The man jerks, growls at him, and looks away.

"I'm serious, Sixteen. You're on serious probation here. One wrong move and I'll more than happily get rid of you."

Sixteen laughs derisively. "You're too damn nice."

"Doesn't matter, I'm also serious, and you know that."

Sixteen huffs, glaring at him, and Desmond meets him with a level gaze. Eventually, he growls.

"Fine. I agree. I'm not letting go of this life yet."

Desmond relaxes minutely and smiles, picking up the phone on his desk. "Great. I'll set up an appointment right now with Dr. Harbrig."

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

He chuckles, listening as the woman picks up the phone. He schedules the first appointment a week and a half later, just to give Sixteen a test run on behavior, and then every other day, before he hangs up, opens the door, and smiles at Shaun.

"Well, it's done," he says, grinning.

"What on earth are you talking about?" the man asks. "You're finally going to tell me why you went into your office?"

"I've resolved it. Cl—Sixteen—agreed to my terms, and we're going to try coexisting. If it doesn't work, it's back to ignoring and the Animus to get rid of him."

Shaun draws himself up a bit, giving him a suspicious look, and says, "Desmond, I hope you know what you're doing."

Desmond grins. "No, but that doesn't matter. I've got too much going for me right now to give up the fight. I won't lose."

Shaun rolls his eyes at his words, rubbing a hand across his face and sighing dramatically. "You are _such a bloody idiot._"

He pretends to think about it for a minute, then nods. "Yeah, but I'm a damn lucky idiot."

He laughs, flinching when he smacks his head. "Christ, Rebecca's gonna have more on her plate than she can handle."

"Oh, come on, she can handle anything."

Shaun rolls his eyes again, shaking his head, but turns around and starts walking off. Desmond falls in step beside him. They walk back to the room, and Rebecca allows them to stay for the rest of the day, feeling slightly better as the nausea passed and playing card games with them. When he falls asleep that night, he does so with a twist in his gut and an eagerness to see the baby.


	9. Chapter 9

The week passes at a crawl, and even the kids are sensing his excitement, becoming just short of unmanageable. He's _dying _to see the baby, and he's never seen a pregnant woman's ultrasound—or, for that matter, seen an ultrasound. He's been sick as a dog, waves of nausea plaguing him at random points in time, occasionally costing him a meal—almost making him unable to teach. However, at least Rebecca seems to be doing better, and that's more than he could wish for. When Friday finally comes around, he's so excited and uptight that he can't sleep.

The next morning finds him with an arm slung over Rebecca as she nibbles on soda crackers. It takes her a bit before she can actually get up, and he stays beside her as they walk to St. Paul's hospital. His heartbeat is quick, and he's almost trembling with nervousness and excitement as they greet the OB/GYN just because he's never met her before. So when he finds himself standing there, feeling a little awkward as the doctor shoves the camera thing up Rebecca's vaginal canal, he hears Sixteen laughing.

"Calm the fuck down, man: it's just an ultrasound."

He looks over his shoulder to see Sixteen grinning at his expense, and the other men in his head appear, all of them curious. Altair looks rather mortified at what the doctor is doing to Rebecca. Ratohnhaké:ton is staring at the screen, his cheeks red as he tries to give them some privacy while satisfying his curiosity about the baby.

"An ultrasound?" Ezio murmurs, staring straight at the doctor and watching what's happening to Rebecca.

Sixteen launches into some sort of explanation as Desmond tunes them all out, holding Rebecca's hand and watching the screen. It's nothing more than a blur of black and white pixels all over the place, and he's trying to see for something in the mess of image. All five of him are staring, even Sixteen, and the doctor points at the screen after several minutes of feeling like he's watching the light speed screensaver on his computer.

There's a big black hole on the screen, and where the doctor is pointing, there's a small blob.

"There it is. Your baby."

A tiny white blob, and Desmond inhales. It's real.

"Here's the head," the doctor says, using the mouse to point to one end, "and here's the spine… the arms… the feet…"

He's entranced. He can feel it, deep in his heart and everything he's ever liked has nothing compared to the feeling he has right now, as he squeezes Rebecca's hand and swallows, this unbridled love, this overwhelming sensation that's threatening to drown him, and he can't take his eyes off the screen. There's a living human being inside his girl, and he can almost swear the fetus is glowing.

That's _his_ baby.

Inside _his_ partner.

And _he's_ going to be a parent.

And then he realizes he's wrong, because it should be that that's _their_ baby.

Inside his _partner_.

And _they're _going to be parents.

"Des?" he hears Rebecca call somewhere, and he swallows again, gasping slightly when the blob actually _moves_ a little.

The doctor laughs, and he's so lost in staring at the screen that he barely hears the rest of the tour of the baby. He looks when Rebecca places his hand on her stomach, and he finds himself grinning. There are black blobs where the eyes should be. They're the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen.

"You okay, Des?"

He looks back at the screen, not hearing the questions she asks the doctor, so utterly in love with the little blob on the screen. He could stare at it for hours, and this one little blob has stolen all of his love and threatens to kill him with such utter happiness. He can't stop the grin from spreading over his face.

"Oh my God, Desmond, you're trembling!"

He kisses Rebecca, unable to help himself before staring back at the screen.

"It's our _baby_, Rebecca!" he murmurs feeling like the grin spreading across his face is going to rip his lips in half just to alleviate some of the strain from stretching so much. "That's our _kid_."

"Well then," the doctor says quietly, smiling, "you might like this. Look. Here's its heartbeat."

He looks, seeing a small flickering light, on and off, on and off, and the doctor pulls out a small radio-like thing. She presses one end against Rebecca's stomach, and he swallows, hearing something like a drum being beaten through a slushie. _That's his child's heartbeat he's listening to._ She adjusts the amplifier, and his eyes are stuck on that little flickering light inside his partner, inside his child, and he can't help but feel as if he's seeing the best thing in the world, that slushing sound something he'll never forget as he watches and watches, and he could listen forever because that is the absolute best thing he's ever heard, and that's _his child_ and _the child's heartbeat_. And Rebecca is just the greatest thing ever, and she's carrying his baby, and all he can do is sit and stare, one hand on his partner's stomach and the other holding her hand, and she's got the most amused look on her face when he looks at her next.

"Excited, Des?"

His voice gets caught in his throat. He's just taken by the child on the screen, in grainy black and white, the little light flickering in and out, and the web-like arms and legs pronounced. It's going to be engrained in his head forever, and as the doctor prints out the picture, he knows that he's going to have it framed. It's incredible. His partner has a _living being_ inside of her, and he's lost his heart to the little white blob on the screen with the flickering heart that sounds like a drum in a slushie and coal-black spots for eyes.

"Congratulations, dad," he hears the doctor say, before she hands him a series of pictures she's printed, and he can tell he's trembling now as he holds them. "Everything is okay here."

And those are the most beautiful words he's ever heard. Everything is okay. Rebecca's okay; the baby is okay; he's okay. Things are beautiful. He's got a _baby_ on the way.

She moves on to other parts of the check up, and he misses the slushie drumbeat when she puts away the amplifier. He's smitten with the pictures of the child inside Rebecca.

"If you're not careful, Des, you're gonna get a fly in that mouth of yours."

He looks up, rubbing his chin and closing his mouth at the same time. The doctor is laughing quietly, and Rebecca is shaking her head, dancing over, all dressed and ready to go, and peeks at the prints as she presses against his side. Before he can even think of it, he's got a grin splitting his face.

"Thank you, Rebecca," he finds himself saying, still holding onto the pictures as if they're the most precious thing in the world while he uses one arm to wrap around her and kisses her head. "Thank you."

She's chuckling as she looks over the pictures. "I feel kinda pathetic. I mean: I've always wanted a kid, but you're just… so into it."

He kisses her head again, walking out with the pictures, paying the bill, and feeling lighter than a feather. When they walk out, he can't help but sweep her off her feet, spinning her around as she yelps, laughing, and he's laughing too. He feels so incredibly happy. He carries her quite a ways before she demands to be let down, and he hugs her again before walking back to the hideout, his arm around her, and it takes all of two seconds before he's showing the pictures to everyone. And that night, when he's told everyone he can think of, and Shaun has had to listen to him go on for a while, humoring him as he stares at the pictures, completely in awe, Rebecca snatches the pictures and runs off when he's not looking. He goes to hunt her down, and he finds her in his father's office.

He's never seen his father look so upset as he looks through the pictures. He hangs back, invisible, and decides instead to listen in on this. He watches as his father keeps flipping through the pictures, staring, grief etched into every wrinkle on his face.

"These are incredible, Rebecca," he hears him murmur. "This is your child?"

She nods. "Yeah, you shoulda seen Dessie at the ultrasound."

He sees his father look up at her, that grief still there, if not worse.

"What was he like?"

"He was a _mess_, William. He was trembling, and at one point, I thought he was gonna start crying he was so happy."

His father smiles sadly, looking back at photos.

"Thank you, for letting me see these."

"It's no problem," she chirps. "You _will_ be the grandfather, whether Desmond admits it or not."

They're quiet for a while, and Desmond is frowning as he watches. They don't actually move much, and he sees him eventually shake his head, resting his head in hand.

"I wish I could go back in time, change all of this."

He watches her tilt her head. "How far?"

His father laughs quietly, bitterly. "All the way back to when I married my wife."

Desmond frowns.

"Knowing what I know now… I didn't even see how much my son hated me on the Farm. I drove him hard enough to cause him to run away, and it wasn't even my training that he fell back on later in life."

"Hey, Billiam, it wasn't your fault: you didn't see it then."

"I didn't even marry for love, Rebecca. I married because I knew I should have a child."

Rebecca blinks. "Really?"

"I didn't care about if I was ready or not—it was simply to pass on the lineage."

"Oh… really?"

He shakes his head, looking back at the pictures.

"If I had known now… that attack… that was well-deserved, if you ask me. I had it coming for so long—"

"You didn't deserve that, Bill, no one does."

He shakes his head. "No, Rebecca, I did. If anything, it… opened my eyes."

"You didn't need to be attacked—"

William sets the photos down, leaning back in his chair. "Rebecca, if he hadn't, I never would have realized just how much hatred he bore toward me. Words are just words, but action… That is something that proves a point."

"Even though he shouted at you beforehand, you still wouldn't have realized anything?"

"I would have heard them, contemplated them, but words are all they are."

"You're so weird."

"I am a man, and a stubborn one at that."

She chuckles, sitting in one of the two chairs there.

"I should have realized such actions have drastic reactions. The only reason I'll even see my grandson is if you let me."

Desmond gets up, deciding it's time to step in now. He walks and stands in the doorframe. He leans against it, ignoring his father's almost surprised look. He looks at Rebecca.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised you showed him."

Rebecca shrugs, and he notices she looks slightly uneasy.

"He was the only one who hadn't seen them yet." She smiles. "And as the child's grandfather, I think he deserves to see them."

He frowns. "Why? He'll probably treat our kid just like he treated me."

"Come off it, Des. I know you have daddy issues, but we should really at least _try_ letting him in."

"I don't see why."

"You let Sixteen have a second chance, didn't you?" she snaps, her mood changing in the blink of an eye.

His eyes grow wide. He hadn't told anyone other than Shaun. He opens his mouth to retort, but Rebecca's having none of it.

"And for that matter, don't even think you can hide that shit from me, all right? No, Shaun didn't tell me. Yes, I found out. No, no one else knows. But fuck this _shit_, Des! Our baby deserves to have grandparents, and I'll be damned if I let your stupid fucking manly daddy issues get in the way of having a second grandfather! Don't you want your kid you have everything you never had? Here's your chance, dipshit! Don't let it go away! Get your ass in here and apologize to your father, because he's done nothing but lament since you _fucking attacked him_."

His father is hiding his mouth behind a hand, and he can only imagine the jaw-dropped expression he has looks utterly ridiculous. His father looks entirely too entertained, the humor in his eyes giving him away as he lowers his hand and sets it on the desk. After a little bit longer, William speaks.

"A pregnant woman is the only thing harder to fight than the entire Templar organization."

Desmond looks at him, sees the mirth in his eyes, and he blinks. Then, he bites his lip.

"I speak from experience, Desmond. You'd stand a better chance as a Hebrew before Moses' time than trying to get out of something she says."

"Damn fucking straight, Desmond, now get your ass in this chair and apologize—and I mean sincerely, too! Geez, between the two of you, there's enough jackassery to turn every person in China into a dumb-spewing, grudge-holding asshole from hell!"

He steps over to the chair and sits down as if it were made of nails. He rests his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, looking anywhere but at his father. He should apologize, he knows he should, but he _can't_. Not because he can't say, "I'm sorry," but because it won't be sincere. He's _not_ sorry for attacking his father, _especially _if everything he said to Rebecca was true. He's been wanting that change in William for a while, and he'd be damned if his child grew up without as many grandparents as possible.

"Well? I'm waiting," Rebecca says, and Desmond decides he'd rather risk her wrath than say he's sorry if he doesn't mean it.

He sighs and leans back in the chair, meeting his father's gaze as he twists his lips. The look on William's face suggests he doesn't believe that he's actually going through with it. He frowns.

"I won't apologize—because I'm not sorry—and there's no point in wasting words if they don't mean anything," he can see Rebecca about ready to blow a gasket, so he hurries to continue, "'cause I know you. You're like the rest of us. It would have taken something drastic like the attack for you to change—just like Altair had to lose Malik's trust and Kadar before he changed, just like Ezio had to lose his family before he grew up, and just like I had to have a baby on the way before I had the strength to fight the men in my head. So I'm not going to apologize, because I'm not sorry. But if you ever forgive me, I'll admit that I'd like to _try_ to reconcile things with you—if not for the sake of the baby, then for myself."

Rebecca looks utterly surprised out of the corner of his eye, and he chews on the inside of his lip, hoping that it doesn't all go to Hell. His father has yet to look away, although eventually, he bows his head.

"Fair enough, Desmond."

He relaxes into the chair a little more.

"It'd be nice if we could at least not be on such harsh terms," his father murmurs, "and I admit it would be nice to have you as a son again, but that will take even longer than nine months, and I'll be lucky if I can truly comprehend the depth of how you feel toward me, but I'm willing to work at it."

He sits there, staring.

And when he holds his baby for the first time after Rebecca gives birth, completely disregarding the pain in his broken fingers, and when he finally gets married to Rebecca and his father is there, when each of the men in his head are saying a part of his vow causing his partner to laugh, and when he and his father are actually healing their fractured relationship, when Sixteen has been attending the appointments and proving he can behave, when he's finally got a family and everything seems to be looking up, he finally believes what he's been telling himself from the beginning:

It's okay.

* * *

**Here's the thing. Yes, a vaginal ultrasound can happen. :3 My poor mother. That's all I have to say. Anyway, questions, comments, complaints? Something tickle your fancy? Something make you squirm awkwardly and wish you hadn't read this? Lemme know. I love hearing from you guys. **


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